


Aftermath

by BreakerBroken



Series: Safeguard [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Burning the world, F/M, Lovers To Enemies, Magic, Oh boy it’s a MESS, Power Struggle, Saving the World, Thedas, What happens after the fallout, World State
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 36,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26662531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreakerBroken/pseuds/BreakerBroken
Summary: She left them with a mess. What can be salvaged, and what must be sacrificed?First continuation of Safeguard - Halea’s story. ~BreakerBrokenNOTE: All of the writing that is underlined indicates that those lines of dialogue are from the original games/media. Those lines belong to their original writers and creators.
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan
Series: Safeguard [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974064
Comments: 20
Kudos: 10





	1. Vanish

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins right after [chapter 56 "Fate Part Three"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25018300/chapters/64465738) in Safeguard.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Solas~

He threw himself through the rip in the Fade, after Blackwall and Varric.

The Grey Wardens were waiting for them, standing still in the courtyard, looks from worried to terrified covering each of their faces. They were wondering if the giant demon they had tried to summon was going to come through the Fade Rift their mages had died creating.

He turned and looked at the Rift, waiting for her to come through. Truthfully, he didn't care if either Hawke or Alistair made it back. He wanted his _vhenan_ to return to this side of the Veil.

He _needed_ her to come back to this side of the Veil.

They'd shared a tender moment in the Fade graveyard, a moment that had given him hope that she _would_ hear him once they were safe. He needed to explain, to tell her that he'd never meant to hurt her. He almost told himself that he'd never meant to deceive her either, but he knew that for the lie it was. 

She had to come back.

Where was she? She had been right behind them. Why wasn't she through already?

He tried to remind himself that the Rift wouldn't close without her, but he knew that it _could_ grow too small to let her through. The desperation he felt to see her standing in this forsaken courtyard was overwhelming.

"Come on, _come on_..." Varric's voice was full of worry, hinting at panic. He was watching for Hawke to appear, possibly with as much fear as Solas felt.

"Where _are_ they?" Blackwall growled, shifting from one foot to the other, swaying forwards and back as if trying to decide whether or not to rush through the Rift again.

Solas walked up to the Rift carefully, peering through. The images were wavy and hazy, like looking through cloudy water on a windy day and trying to see what lay beneath the surface. He could make out figures, four of them. He knew who stood there, but not which figures were which: Alistair, Hawke, Halea, and the woman from another world. The woman who had unleashed her own fury on him by laying bare all of his secrets to Halea.

He also saw several massive spider's legs jab into the ground just in front of the Rift. As the woman had warned, Nightmare hadn't been defeated, just temporarily thwarted. It was back, most likely in a much more weakened state, to prevent them from exiting the Fade, and to exact its revenge. Even in a weakened state, Solas could feel its massive power through the Rift.

His conscience twinged. He _had_ been right after all: someone would need to stay behind and distract Nightmare, despite the plans and machinations of the woman from another world. A thought passed through the back of his mind. He'd thought that she should stay behind, had made a logical argument for it, but there was something that he vaguely remembered that had _confirmed_ it for him. The thought was as fleeting and inconsequential as mist.

He saw two of the figures dart towards the Rift. Solas stepped back. "Two more!" He shouted it to Blackwall and Varric. He fervently hoped that one of them was Halea.

The figures burst through the Veil at the same time. Hawke, his armor stained with demon ichor. Halea, bruised and cut and exhausted. She immediately turned when she came through, standing mere feet away from the Rift, staring through it intently.

Solas wanted to go to her, to pull her back from the Rift, to hold her in his arms, to explain all of his secrets to her in the hopes that she'd understand him. That she'd understand why he had lied and mislead and manipulated the Inquisition. It had never been about deceiving _her_. She just so happened to be the leader of the group that he'd needed to manipulate.

He'd need more time to rework how to say that.

Halea's head tilted and twisted, trying to look through the undulating Rift. Solas knew there were two more in the Fade. He assumed that only one of them, if any, would make it through.

"Where is he?" Halea's voice cracked, worry straining her already strained body. Solas thought for a brief moment that she meant him, that the sadness in her voice mirrored her fear, and yet he was here, just behind her. He realized his selfishness when her eyes remained fixed on the Rift. "She said she would stay behind. She wanted to save him, he _has_ to come through."

Hawke waited with her, just as tense. "He wouldn't leave her, not now. There's no way she'll convince him to leave."

Halea looked worriedly at Hawke, then back at the Rift. "We've got to give it more time."

Solas ran to her side. "Halea, you must close the Rift. You cannot wait."

The glare she leveled at him froze his heart. "She said you were right."

The woman. He had been the one to tell the woman that she should stay behind. When he'd first told her, she'd lectured him, screamed at him, even thrown a punch at him that had left his jaw bruised and his conscience in turmoil. The ephemeral thought crossed his mind again, that he'd known he'd been right, but couldn't quite remember _how_ he'd known.

And now, not only had the woman laid him bare to his _vhenan_ with venom and fury, but even on the other side of the Veil she had reminded Halea of the doubt she had in him because of it. He swallowed nervously, trying to put aside _that_ crisis so they could resolve _this_ one.

"That does not negate the fact that you must close the Rift," he pushed on, trying to remain composed. "Fade energy is pouring through it even as we speak, and demons could continue manifesting at any moment."

She turned abruptly away from him and back towards the Rift, her body radiating the chill from her gaze.

" _Halea_." The word was caught between a plea and an admonishment. No matter how she currently felt towards _him_ , surely she could see that the longer the Rift was open, the more immediate danger she put them all in. He wasn't strong enough to control the permeability of the Veil yet. He wasn't sure if he was immortal enough to risk the danger.

"Wait, who's that?!" Hawke said suddenly, body going rigid.

Halea squinted through the ripples of the Rift. "Is it the Divine?" She was looking for the golden glow of the spirit who appeared in Divine Justinia's visage. Solas saw no such glow, but the spirit had taken on a more human-seeming body before revealing her true form.

" _Let go of me, dammit!_ "

They whirled around to see two figures behind them. The figures had appeared suddenly, one a man with russet hair and in the armor of a Grey Warden, the other a person with pale skin and a large hat.

Alistair and Cole.

Cole had his arms locked around Alistair's waist. Alistair struggled furiously against him, trying to pull himself forward. " _We have to go back for her! Take me BACK!_ " There was panic in his eyes, and fear and anger twisted his face. His movements were swift and merciless, raining blows down on Cole's arms, but he couldn't escape his grip.

Solas looked to Halea, and watched her tender heart break for the man. Alistair looked up at her and saw the same.

"Halea, _don't you dare._ "

She lifted her hand, the Anchor sparking virulent green.

" _Don't!_ " He stopped struggling, and the panic that had shone in his eyes a moment before turned to tears. " _Please._ "

Tears fell from Halea's eyes as the Anchor connected with the Rift.

" _NO!_ " His scream echoed through the courtyard, piercing ears and hearts alike. Even Solas felt pity for him.

But she had to close the Rift, for all of their sakes.

Halea clenched her hand into a fist, drawing the Rift closed and dispersing the Fade energy in an explosion of green light.

* * *

Solas blinked the flashes of white and green away, and looked back to see Alistair on his hands and knees. Cole stayed next to him, but with a hand on his back instead of arms circling his waist.

The Grey Warden, who had fought an Archdemon face-to-face, who had helped end the Fifth Blight, who had investigated red lyrium and fled the very brethren that had hunted him, crumpled onto the courtyard floor and wept.

Solas watched Alistair weep for a few moments, then became confused.

Why was the Warden weeping?

Solas looked between where the Rift had been and the devastated Warden.

He had made it through. Nightmare had stood between him and the Rift on the side of the Fade.

Halea and Hawke had made it through. Hadn't he volunteered to stay as a distraction for Nightmare? Then, by some inexplicable stroke of luck, Cole had appeared and pulled him back to the Waking world.

Halea had closed the Rift. She had tears on her cheeks. Why had _she_ been weeping?

Halea wiped at the tears and stared at them in confusion.

Something was missing. But what?

No...some _one_ was missing. But _who_?

Six of them had fallen through the Rift that Halea had opened in a panic as they fell from the top of Adamant Fortress.

Had it only been six?

Wasn't there another? Had it been Cole? No, Solas thought, it hadn't been Cole. He'd advocated for Cole to stay behind, worried that being so close to Nightmare's malevolence might affect the embodied spirit negatively.

Someone...someone else had come with them...he was almost sure of it...

Cole looked up at Solas from where he crouched, a comforting hand on the weeping Warden. "You've already forgotten her."

Cole sounded sad, forlorn. "Who are you referring to, Cole? Who have I forgotten?" Solas' confusion became mirrored in Halea, and Hawke, and Varric, and Blackwall.

Cole merely shook his head. "She's gone. I'll remember her. I think he will, too. I'll ask if he wants to forget her. After." He looked back down to Alistair, ignoring everyone else.

The Warden's weeping was easing, but his despair hung like a shroud around him. Cole could feel others' emotions most easily. He would help Alistair with whatever sorrow he was experiencing.

Solas turned back to Halea, a smile of relief playing across his lips. "I worried that you would trap yourself in the Fade, _vhenan_."

She almost smiled back at him, until something sparked behind her eyes and she glared at him instead. "How could I not come back to you when we've got so much to talk about, _Fen'Harel_ _?_ "

Solas stopped himself from stepping back in surprise, but not before he swayed slightly. The sway sharpened Halea's gaze. Had she found him out? But _how_ _?!_

" _Vhenan_ , why invoke that name? What do you mean?"

Her glare deepened. He searched her face for tenderness, and saw some, buried deep behind her eyes, underneath hurt and anger and distrust. "I mean _you're_ the one who caused _all of this_. The Breach, the Rifts. _This_ ," she held up her hand, the Anchor sparking violently, "was because of _you_. You gave the Anchor to Corypheus."

Panic rose in his throat, but he attempted to remain calm. "I don't know what you're talking about, _vhenan_ , maybe our time physically in the Fade has affected you."

She was about to say something more, when another Grey Warden stepped up and began speaking to her, interrupting their argument.

Solas quietly stepped back, letting Halea decide the Grey Wardens' fate, as he pondered how, _how_ , she had found out about his true identity.


	2. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It settles, regardless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Halea~

She let the Wardens stay in Orlais.

It came with more restrictions, of course. Oversight, exchanges, new systems of reporting. Direct contact between the Inquisition and Weisshaupt. Halea left many of the changes up to the Advisors and Weisshaupt. Two she had insisted on: Hawke's nominee Stroud becoming the new Warden-Commander of the Orlesian Grey Wardens, and Alistair remaining with them as the Wardens' official liaison to the Inquisition.

Leliana had been the one to come up with that. "At the moment, he needs the Inquisition more than the Wardens."

They thought Alistair had lost his mind in the Fade when he started talking about a woman none of them remembered, except for Cole. It had taken days to sort out what he was talking about, but something he said had reminded Dorian of the time magic Alexius had been messing with. Halea and Dorian had been transported to a different future, seen different people, and returned to their current time; maybe that's what happened with the woman Alistair spoke of with tears in his eyes.

That was something for Dorian and whatever other mages and scholars he decided to consult to figure out.

Halea's mind was focused on one problem, and one problem alone: the ancient Elvhen god imprisoned in the cells of Skyhold.

Fen'Harel. Solas.

Halea had Alistair recount as much of what the woman had said about Solas in the Fade as he remembered. Halea remembered everything of their journey, except when it came to the woman. Alistair seemed to love the woman deeply, devastated not only to lose her and not know if he could get her back, but also for others to forget her very existence. He held his composure well, went over the information as best as he could with her, and it seemed to be correct, if the mysterious woman was right. 

It was disorienting, that Halea knew things she had no memory of learning, but she knew she'd learned it during their time within the Fade. She knew it because before the Fade, she'd thought Solas was simply a brilliant mage more content with spirits than with the living; after the Fade, she knew he was a liar.

She wondered, _again_ , why he hadn't run as soon as the Grey Wardens distracted her at Adamant Fortress. He'd stepped back, and she resigned herself to having to hunt him down. Only, when she finished sealing the Grey Wardens' fate, he was still there. Blackwall, Varric, and Hawke stood with him, weapons drawn but not yet aimed. He stood calmly, only a slight look of frustration on his face betraying any particular emotion.

"Solas," she had said, drawing in a deep breath. "You are being formally accused of causing the Breach, aiding Corypheus, espionage and manipulation, and of falsely presenting yourself and your motivations to the Inquisition."

To her surprise, he had nodded. "I acknowledge that I am accused of these things."

The wind blew sand around the courtyard in Adamant Fortress where the Fade Rift - and Nightmare - originally stood. Grey Wardens, the warriors and the now unpossessed mages, carried their wounded to corners to be patched up, and dragged their dead to other corners, to await burial. She could hear soft murmurs, the faint sounds of the first attempts to rebuild what had been destroyed.

He hadn't denied it. Halea wished he had, wished he had started arguing furiously with her and convinced her that no, of course this couldn't be true, it was impossible for him to be an Elvhen god, let alone Fen'Harel, the one who banished the Evanuris. She wasn't sure if she would have believed him, but his casual acceptance was more disturbing than a denial would have been.

They had taken his stave and any lyrium potions from him and locked them away. They had bound his hands together, and put cords on his feet so he had to hobble to walk at a normal pace. They let him ride in the wagon, Varric pointing a loaded Bianca at his heart, instead of humiliating him by making him walk. She couldn't have survived seeing him follow the wagons like an enslaved elf on his way to be sold in Tevinter. Once back at Skyhold, Halea had led him directly to the cells, choosing one heavily warded to dispel any magic within its confines.

The same one Cassandra had put him in when he almost amputated Halea's arm to save her from a barrier that had almost drained the Anchor of its Fade Energy.

To _save_ her.

So she could watch him burn the world.

"You don't have to go down there alone, you know."

Varric's voice jarred Halea, making her snatch her hand away from the door leading down to the cells. She flexed her hand, noticing that it was sore. How long had she been standing there, holding onto the door's metal handle, telling herself to go down and talk to him?

"I know. But it has to be me. And if I'm going to go down there and confront him, I don't want an audience."

"You sure you don't want any security? Bianca and I could keep you company without eavesdropping." He patted the leather strip of the heavy crossbow's holster.

"I'll be okay, Varric. Maybe send reinforcements if you hear screaming?"

"Yours, or his?"

"Either." She sighed. "I don't want to hurt him, Varric, I just want answers."

He nodded. "I hope you get them, Inquisitor."

She took a steadying breath and opened the door leading down to the cells.

* * *

Solas paced back and forth, like he had when he was first brought down here by Cassandra. A caged animal longing to be free. The comparison had never seemed more fitting.

He looked over at her as she came through the doorway, stepping over to the bars of the cage. "So, you've come."

He sounded calm, as if he were in the study upstairs, reading or painting.

"Yes." She stopped a few feet away from the metal bars. The stared at each other, her nerves fraying with each placid second that passed without either of them speaking. "So...what do I call you?"

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as if in amusement. "Solas. My name has _always_ been Solas."

She steeled herself for her next question. _Pull the plaster_ _off_ , she thought to herself. _Let the wound bleed as it likes. Dig everything out of it before it festers and rots. It was made by a poisoned weapon from the start: A lie coated in half-truths._ "Is it true that you want to destroy this world so you can tear down the Veil and resurrect Elvhenan?"

"There's no evidence that it would destroy this world. But, yes. I want to unmake the Veil in the hopes of bringing back Elvhenan. "

Halea lifted her hand. The virulent green light of the Fade energy coursing through the mark on her hand, the embedded Anchor in her palm, sparked and spat violently. "I would say _this_ , and the Breach, are evidence that it would."

"The result of a miscalculation."

"Why?"

"I believed Corypheus to be far stupider than he-"

"No, _why_ do you want to unmake the Veil?"

He sighed, lifting a slim hand to rub at his temple. "The simplest way to put it would be 'atonement.' In order to remedy what I've done to the People by creating the Veil, I must unmake it."

She shifted half a step closer to the cell. "And how did you plan on atoning for what you would do to _us_ , Solas, after we were all dead?"

He shook his head. "There's no _guarantee_ that unmaking the Veil would destroy your world. That it would destroy _you_. In fact..." His hands came up to grip the bars. "Halea, you should come with me."

He said it simply, like he had invited her to stroll the Skyhold garden with him.

She stepped closer to the cell. "Come _with you_? Why?!"

She saw his eyes brighten. She knew that look. He had figured something out and was excited to share it with her. Every time she asked him a question about his studies, every time he walked towards her with an open book in his hands, every time he had made a connection that he said he _had_ to share with her, that light sparkled in his eyes.

What had he figured out while pacing in this cage?

"The Anchor...it might protect you in the unmaking. The Anchor is already bound to you. I'll work on stabilizing it, and after I've unmade the Veil, we'll walk through the new Elvhenan, _together_ , once this is all over." He held up a hand, placing it flat on the empty space between the bars. It landed on the cell's magic barrier, creating a shimmering ripple from the point where his hand made contact with it. "Halea, _come with me_. We do not have to be enemies, you and I."

She lifted her hand up, laying it on the other side of the barrier from his. "We don't have to be enemies..."

He smiled, chuckling quietly. His hand curled, as if he wanted to wrap his fingers around hers. "No, we do not, _vhenan_."

"...As long as you get to move forward with your plan."

His smile dropped. He searched her face, perhaps for weakness, perhaps for jest.

Whatever he had hoped to see wasn't there.

" _Vhenan_..."

"Solas, please, _please_ tell me I can still change your mind. Tell me that I'm not wasting my time trying to talk to you." His hand pressed hard against the barrier, but he looked away from her. “I can’t just stand by and let you destroy this world to bring back yours.”

His eyes hardened. “Is this where we argue which world’s existence matters more? What would be the point? We would never come to an agreement on the answer.”

“The death of every person walking this world right now wouldn’t matter to you?” Anger began building in her. Anger at his selfishness. Anger at his lack of compassion for the world he walked around in. Anger at herself for being fooled by him.

“If it would mean the resurrection of Elvhenan, then no. It wouldn’t.”

“That’s why I can’t let you go. I can’t let you go and murder everyone.”

“So, we are both selfish, then.”

“I’m selfish for wanting everyone to survive. You’re selfish for wanting everyone to die. That doesn’t sound like an unbalanced argument at all.” With more anger came heat, causing her to flush and sweat.

“I want the lives that were lost _back_! If you’d only _understand_ that!”

“I understand, Solas. I understand.” She said it slowly, trembling with rage inside. “I understand that you tried to use Corypheus for your own ends and failed. I understand that you’ve been using the Inquisition for your own ends and you’ve been caught in the act. I understand that you’ve been lying to me, feeding me bits and pieces of information and creating the illusion that it was the whole truth. The thing I _don’t_ understand is how getting me to fall in love with you fits in.”

“It was not part of my plan,” he said, leaning closer to the bars, staring at her earnestly. “It seems pointless to ask you to trust me, given the current circumstances, but I did not _want_ to fall in love with you. I tried to resist you, Halea. I _tried_. But you pursued me, and I admired you for it. I couldn’t deny my love for you any more than I could deny the need for my atonement.”

“You said  it would be kinder in the long run  to have walked away from me. So why the _fuck_ didn’t you? Was it because you had more opportunities to manipulate me? Because I trusted you, so I would confide in you, and consult you, and bring you in on the Inquisition’s plans? What _benefits_ did you get by being in love with me?!”

“There were many. You’d think I was lying if I said there weren’t any benefits to loving you, Halea.” He looked into her eyes, sincere and startlingly gentle. “There were. But I would have fallen in love with you whether you’d been the Inquisitor or a lowly kitchen maid.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” The heat and pressure increased, starting a pounding in her head and a ringing in her ears. “We wouldn’t have even met if it wasn’t for _THIS_.” She slammed her hand against the barrier, the Anchor sparking madly, green light seeming to spill onto the stone below their feet.

He leaned his head against the barrier, another shimmering wave sweeping across its surface. He almost looked ashamed. She was sure he wasn't.

"What will you do with me, now that you know I'm not a good man?"

Halea's anger roiled inside of her, reminded of a night in the desert under the stars where she had answered a version of that question with love and assurance. The reference made her want to scream, to break the barrier and strangle him. Instead, she leaned her head against the barrier as well. She wanted to allow herself this one last show of affection, even in the middle of her fury. "I will not let you go...Fen'Harel."

"I did not expect you to, Inquisitor."

She looked up at him, and realized that she had made a grave mistake.

The last thing she saw was his eyes, glowing with lightning, before everything turned into smoke and pain.


	3. Residual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Empty, not negative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Solas~

Half.

He was only able to remove half.

He'd planned to unmake the barrier and use its raw magic to escape Skyhold as soon as the cell's door clanged shut behind him. There were many passages that he remembered from when the fortress was first built, passages that only he and those loyal to him knew about. The barrier would cease its existence, he would use the raw magic for a quick teleportation, and be gone long before they realized it.

It was taking days to unmake the barrier in his still too-weak state, pulling the threads of the spell apart and saving them as raw strands. Each time he heard the heavy wooden door, he paced, pretending to be agitated. He'd endured Cassandra's wrath, Leliana's cold stares, even Varric's disappointed sighs.

He had almost finished unmaking the barrier when the door opened yet again. He began pacing, expecting Cassandra (his most frequent visitor), but stopped when he saw it was Halea.

He had planned to save this confrontation for another day, another place, after he was safely out of the Inquisition’s hands. But he hadn’t been able to unmake the barrier in time.

As they spoke, he itched to retreat, realizing that he would need to leave as soon as possible after she had rejected his offer.

And to leave, he needed more power than he had gathered at the moment. Panic made his skin buzz, and he’d rested his hand on the barrier to continue its unmaking as subtly as he could.

He didn’t expect her to place her hand opposite of his. Let alone her _marked_ hand.

He could exchange the raw magic from the barrier for the magic in the Anchor. It would hurt her, but that pain was most likely preferable to the slow erosion of her body as the Anchor’s magic ate away at her.

He’d never wanted to cause her pain, although he knew, with the first touch of her lips in the Fade, that it would be unavoidable.

He had told himself so many times to walk away from her. But it had been too hard to walk away from someone who felt like home when you had been without it for so long.

He had allowed himself the selfish gift of loving her, accepting the inevitable consequences with it.

Just as he accepted he might perish in the unmaking of the Veil. Or that, should he survive, the Elvhen would pass judgement on him and exact a punishment.

Accepting the consequences did not make them more palatable.

It had taken all of the raw magic from the barrier, as well as much of what he had gathered since his awakening, to pull the Anchor from Halea.

His sight had changed as he poured the magic around the Anchor, showing him both the Fade and the waking world at once. He watched the Anchor’s magic slowly pull out of Halea, dragging it through her palm, its bright green roots reluctantly sliding through the pathways that mages had developed after the creation of the Veil to allow them to wield the weak magic they now had. His sight allowed him to see the physical pain wracking her body, blossoming in fiery red like blood spilled on a battlefield. It also allowed him to see the despair, icy and piercing, pulsing around her heart.

He knew if he looked down at his own chest, he would see the same.

Enough raw magic surrounded him that he was able to move through the bars of the cell as if they were mist, wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her upright and clasping her hand to increase his pull on the Anchor.

He knew he would be lying to himself if it wasn’t also to hold her one last time.

She was stiff in his arms, body rigid and bright with pain and despair, but drawing the Anchor out was _working_ , leaving her body and traveling into his own.

It was balanced between them, half the magic rooted in each of them, when his strength began to fail him.

It wasn’t enough.

Nothing was enough.

He wasn’t enough.

He felt the Anchor slipping from his grasp, snaking its way around his magic and digging back into her body.

He couldn’t allow it to. If it returned to her, she would continue disintegrating. And he needed its power. But he wasn’t strong enough to keep it from slipping.

So, instead, he broke it.

He tore the Anchor in half, keeping part for himself. The other part returned to her.

Fitting, really, that they should each have a piece of the very thing that brought them together.

His vision dropped and he swayed backwards, the once-again solid metal bars digging into his back. He held her close to him, to stop her from falling.

He held her close to him, not wanting to let go.

He held her close to him, as if leading her in a dance that they would never share.

With shaking limbs he lowered her to the floor. He considered trying to hide her, to prolong his chance of escape, but he heard the sound of someone calling her name.

He stood and stumbled for the entrance to the passageway, trying and failing not to look back at her body lying motionless on the stone. With the flick of a harmless ancient spell at a certain section of stone wall, the passageway opened, then closed as soon as he passed through it.

He ran through the passage, his half of the Anchor marking his own palm, painfully sparking and throbbing. He ran until he was completely out of breath, only pausing once he collapsed in the passage.

He didn’t need to create light to see the passage around him. Humble dirt walls were set with stones evenly spaced apart, etched with runes that brightened or dimmed depending on if someone was near them. Sturdy wooden supports marked lengths of the passage, and it was far enough below ground to be solid without dipping into the Deep Roads.

Solas took shuddering breaths, his chest aching, arms and legs shaky from the effort of removing the Anchor and then fleeing.

He was alone in the passage. He felt alone in the world. Here, in the cool dark dirt, far away from the face of the sun and prying eyes of mortals, he wept without fear of being discovered.

He wept for his spoiled plans and his many mistakes.

He wept for his lost past, for his impossible future, and his broken present.

He wept for his _vhenan_ , for causing her so much pain and for the pain in her future.

He wept for his failure to remove the entire Anchor, unsure of how the half that remained in her would affect her.

He wept for his success in removing part of the Anchor, which might have kept her safe when he unmade the Veil.

He wept until his eyes were as sore as his limbs and his heart.

He used the dirt wall of the passage to get himself back on shaking legs and unsteady feet. He held his marked hand in front of him, envisioning a safehouse not too far away, and drew on the Anchor and whatever dregs of ancient magic he had left to cast a portal to it.

The portal was small, barely big enough for him, but it was stable. He saw a simple but elegant bedroom on the other side of it, and sunshine, and the curious face of one of his agents.

He stumbled through the portal and collapsed it behind him. The agent waiting for him, an older Dalish elf, caught Solas under the arms and kept him from slumping onto the floor.

“Fen’Harel!”

Solas flinched slightly at the name. It was what the people who believed in his cause wanted to call him. That didn’t mean he liked it any more than he had the first time.

“Orrian, tell me what the others have done since my capture.” He knew his voice was weak, but he had to know that his people, and his cause, were still safe.

Orrian half-dragged Solas over to the bed and helped him sit on it, then stood in front of Solas like a footsoldier reporting to their commander.

“Most of our people are safe, Fen’Harel. We still have a few loyal to you in the Inquisition, in lower positions both at _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ and farther afield so as not to arouse suspicion. They will keep us updated as the Inquisition proceeds. We will not be caught unaware again. I wish I could find the one who betrayed us and flay them, I'd tan their hide like a pelt.” The fury in his eyes was cold and merciless.

“One of ours did not betray our cause, Orrian.” 

The Dalish man’s eyes widened in surprise. “A counterspy?”

Solas shook his head wearily. “An interloper. One I believe we no longer need worry about, although the damage she’s caused has been dire.”

“What happened to this interloper?”

“It is not your concern,” Solas snapped impatiently. It was rare for him to be asked a question and not have some semblance of a response, but whoever the interloper had been, he only had the faintest wisps of memories. A woman, he believed. Her face or voice he couldn't recall, but there were several memories in his mind that had person-shaped voids in them, and he believed those voids had been her. His frustration with his altered memory was only half of his irritation. He was also worn through, and he’d forgotten that Orrian had the unfortunate habit of asking questions at the worst possible moment. “You’ve said the movement is secure and our people are safe?” The Dalish man nodded his head. “Then I will rest here for the night, and we will move to the next phase when I wake.”

“The next-?! Fen’Harel! We are not ready for the next phase! We-”

Solas’ glare stopped Orrian from continuing. “We _will_ begin our next phase. We must. Now leave me to rest, Orrian. Wake me if our position changes.”

“Yes, Fen’Harel.” Orrian bowed to him, another habit that irked Solas, and left him to rest.

He laid down, sore muscles protesting, mark throbbing, and fell asleep.


	4. Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Find a way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Halea~

Solas had escaped, and he'd done something to the Anchor.

Dorian, Vivienne, and Grand Enchanter Fiona had studied the Anchor on Halea's hand. Their minds had to work together to puzzle out answers Solas might have found in minutes on his own. Although whether he would have known because he had the knowledge, or because it would have been by his own doing, was a bitter guessing game she played in her mind.

They determined that he'd weakened the Anchor somehow. "It's almost as if he's torn the mark in half," Fiona explained to Halea, as best as she could. With the Anchor weakened, Halea wasn't sure if there was enough power in it to close any future Fade Rifts she might come across.

It definitely wouldn't be enough to prevent the unmaking of the Veil.

Solas had escaped, and several others in the Inquisition had disappeared as well. Agents and spies that Solas had brought in, ones that Leliana's people hadn't rooted out yet. Leliana promised to look into everyone 'twice and twice again' to find any lingering agents. The fury in her eyes was cold.

Halea told the Advisors and the three mages Solas' ultimate goal.

"But... _unmaking_ the Veil, as he's so charmingly called it, would send the Fade crashing into us." Vivienne's voice was concerned, although she'd kept her expression calm. "Demons could run unchecked, malicious spirits could possess whomever they liked."

"I'm loathe to admit it, but the Imperium might be a bigger concern." Dorian stared absently at the map in the War Room, eyes locked on Tevinter. "The Magisterium's always talking about wanting more power, and we've seen all the problems the Venatori have been able to cause. And that's _without_ the unchecked excess magic that free access to the Fade would bring them."

"Maker help us all," Cullen muttered angrily. "What a mess. He wants to cause massive upheaval just to bring back the past? What of those of us who live here _now_?!"

" _Cullen_ ," Cassandra snapped in a sharp warning.

"Right. My apologies, Inquisitor." He nodded to Halea. She had told them the entire conversation she and Solas had before he'd escaped, backwards and forwards, over and over again. After hours of discussing each detail, they'd gotten all they could from it, and Halea had wearily asked them to focus on their response to his plan. Detouring into emotional outbursts wasn't something they had time for anymore.

Especially since Solas' plan had been _years_ in the making. They were already racing against a clock, only the clock was invisible and they hadn't know how much time they were getting in the first place.

"So, he wants to unmake the Veil, which he made to begin with, if we are to believe him." Josephine tapped her writing board, reading over her notes. "The question we must answer next is _how?_ "

"He needed the magic locked within the Anchor, yes? Also known as the Orb of Destruction?" Fiona's eyes were sharp, an idea taking shape in her mind. "He needed the Anchor's raw magic badly enough that he gave it to Corypheus to unlock. He's even run off with part of it, rather than leaving it to you whole. He needs massive amounts of raw magic to enter into the Fade and then unmake the Veil. And not just any magic... _ancient_ magic."

"Like the magic in the Anchor..." Halea looked at her hand. "He's going to find more artifacts."

Cullen suddenly looked pale. "Are you saying there are more orbs of raw magic just _laying around_ Thedas?" 

Halea gave a weary shrug. "Maybe it's orbs, maybe it's all different. There were all those artifacts that Solas activated as we found them...he said they _strengthened_ the Veil."

"Perhaps he was lying," Leliana said quietly. "Perhaps they will help him unmake the Veil."

Halea slammed her hands on the map, making everyone jump. " _OR_ maybe he was telling the _TRUTH_ and they'll stop demons from getting through because they _strengthen_ the Veil!"

"Why would he strengthen what he seeks to unmake?" Cassandra asked, trying to mask her confusion as anger.

Halea lowered her head, keeping her hands flat on the map, the weakened mark pulsing gently. "Because he's _not_ a monster."

The room fell into an unsettling silence.

"Halea..." Josephine began.

"He's not _._ " She shut her eyes against the wave of loneliness she suddenly found herself drowning in.

"He's certainly no saint," Vivienne said dryly.

"He's not a monster. He's not a saint. He's...he's..." Halea felt her chest tighten, her lungs unable to break past the shrinking space. She saw a star-filled sky. His face twisted in anguish. His voice filled her head. ' _What would you do with me, Halea, if you knew I wasn't a good man?'_ She took a shuddering breath. "He's just a man who needs to do what he thinks is right."

"And you are trying to balance your love for him with your duty." Fiona's voice made Halea look up. She saw a mirroring of her own feelings in the other elven mage's eyes. Had Fiona gone through something like this? Had a lover presented themselves to Fiona, only to uncover their lies, and still love them?

Halea's breathing came a little easier, less buried under the others' stares now that she knew she had someone who understood how she felt, even just a little. "He wouldn't have fought by our side, led us to Skyhold, helped seal the Breach and the Rifts, if he didn't care about us."

"So, because he cares for us, he wants to improve our lives before he kills us all?" Vivienne raised a brow.

"Seems akin to giving painkillers to a soldier with a broken leg while planning to execute them the morning," Cullen muttered angrily.

Josephine looked carefully around the room. "There could be a certain...kindness...in that, I suppose? But, perhaps, we should return to the issue of Solas possibly gathering more artifacts?"

"Yes," Fiona said. "We must assume he is planning to gather more artifacts, to gain more ancient, raw magic. Then he will use the raw magic he gathers to unmake the Veil."

Dorian stepped forward. "So, it stands to reason that, in order to stop him, we should gather those items before he can."

"You're not suggesting that we gather all of the magical items across Thedas?!" Cassandra shook her head. "Do you know how long it would take, how many allies we would need? And how do we guarantee that those allies wouldn't already be aligned with Solas?!"

"We find people he doesn't know." Halea stood tall, looking at the others. "There _have_ to be people we can trust. Solas believes the Inquisition's corruption was inevitable. Maybe that's true, but it doesn't mean that people shouldn't trust each other."

"What of the artifacts?" Josephine asked. "Cassandra has a point, there are most likely thousands of items of magical significance all across Thedas. How do we know which items contain _ancient_ magic?"

"We have an official connection to Weisshaupt, correct?" Vivienne pointed out. "The Wardens have been around since the First Blight. Surely they would have a library, with scholars who have studied every text within it. It would be quite the chance at redemption for Clarel's indiscretion if we could peruse their library for mentions of powerful artifacts."

"I could reach out to another contact as well," Leliana said, head tilting slightly. "I cannot guarantee that she will help us, but she may, if we can provide something suitable in return."

Halea felt knots in her shoulders and stomach unwind. Calm, light as a gentle spring rain, settled over her.

A plan.

They had a plan.

* * *

They left the War Room in much higher spirits than they had entered it. Leliana went to send a message to her mysterious contact, and Josephine went to track down Alistair and arrange for Weisshaupt's assistance. The Inquisition's connection with the Wardens didn't automatically guarantee their help, but if anyone knew how to sweetly ask for assistance from an ally in a way that forced them to agree, it was Lady Montilyet.

Cassandra and Cullen agreed to oversee the practical aspects of building the Inquisition's forces and combatting Corypheus. It was almost amusing that Corypheus was now considered a lower priority.

Almost.

Fiona and Vivienne went towards the Skyhold library to see what they and Skyhold's researchers could find on ancient artifacts of great power.

Dorian drew Halea aside as the others set off on their tasks. "I'd like to be part of the company that goes to Weisshaupt." He smiled at Halea's confusion. "I know how much you adore having me around for my charm, wit, and beauty. Afraid you'll miss me if you let me go?"

Halea couldn't help but smile back at him, even if her smile wasn't as light as it had once been. "You'd be journeying _with_ me, Dorian. I wouldn't have the chance to miss you. But why do you want to go to Weisshaupt? Wouldn't that put you awfully close to the Imperium?"

Dorian sighed. "Yes, it would put me close to my home, although I'd be more than happy to avoid the place altogether. My aim is directly related to our plan, if you can believe it. My sights are set on Weisshaupt, its library in particular."

"And what do you think you'll find there?"

"Clues to the location of Barindur." Dorian's look was insistent, earnest, and the slightest bit wary.

Halea stared at him. "Dorian, I have no clue what that is."

"You...you don't know the tale of the Lost Kingdom of Barindur?" Dorian was somehow taken aback and immensely amused at the same time.

Halea motioned to her _vallaslin_. "Dalish. Remember? If it's some human tale, there's very little chance I'd have heard of it. Let alone if it's one from _Tevinter_."

She didn't say that Solas had mentioned it to her once, something about a city covered in ash. She'd rather not mention Solas right now, if she could help it.

Dorian cleared his throat. "Ah, of course, silly me. Oh, where do I begin... Really, I should leave this bit to Varric. I can tell an entertaining tale, but Varric has just a touch more finesse in storytelling than I do. Don't tell him I said that."

Halea shook her head with a smile. "Never. Let's get something to eat before you read me a bedtime story." Her stomach had resisted food since they returned from the Fade. Now, with the comfort of a plan to ease her worry, she was ravenous.

He offered his arm and she took it, glad for the ease with which he gave his friendship. "Oh, it's not a bedtime story. I only tell _those_ to Bull." He winked and she laughed. If nothing else, the story would most likely be entertaining.

* * *

They retrieved food and drink from Herald's Rest and brought it back to Dorian's nook in the library. He pulled a tome down from a bookshelf that, much to the librarian's frustration, he had commandeered to use for his own personal book storage and whatever books of the library's he wanted to peruse.

"As children, we were told all sorts of fantastical tales about the history and glory of Tevinter," Dorian began, pouring both of them more wine. "Carefully worded so we would worship the Imperium with unquestioning devotion, of course. Didn't work, by the way."

"You don't say?" She bit into a hunk of hard cheese, watching Dorian open the well-worn book. It's cover read, _In Pursuit of Knowledge: Travels of a Chantry Scholar_.

"Unbelievable, I know. Well, the Imperium wasn't always the land-and-power-hungry nation that you know it as. In its beginning, before it became the Imperium, it was a collection of four little kingdoms: Tevinter, Neromenian, Barindur, and Qarinus. The little kingdoms went through many periods of war and peace, etcetera, etcetera. Eventually Tevinter, Neromenian, and Qarinus were 'united,' to put it naively, and formed the Imperium."

"But not Barindur?"

"Barindur disappeared at least five hundred years before the Imperium was founded. Now, I know what you're thinking: did it really 'disappear?' That's where the myth comes in. I've found that the most succinct summary of the entire saga of Barindur, in particular, is the one written by Brother Genitivi." Dorian flipped through the book, turning the pages until he found the one he was looking for. He began reading, eyebrows raised slightly, reminding her of the storytellers from her clan.

_" Legend has it that during the celebration of the winter solstice, Carinatus, High King of Barindur, turned away an envoy from the High Priest of Dumat. The priest called upon his god to punish Carinatus for the offense, and the Dragon-God of Silence answered him._

_ Months passed. The Kingdom of Barindur fell silent. In distant Minrathous, the priests of Razikale dreamed of dark omens. Their oracles declared that a dire fate had befallen King Carinatus. Finally, the fearful High King of Minrathous sent a company of soldiers to Barindur. _

_The men reported that the road which led across the northern plains ended abruptly. They walked for leagues over barren, empty rock where the Kingdom of Barindur had once been. All of it swept from the face of the world by the hand of a god. "_

Dorian closed the book, resting it in his lap. "Brother Genitivi was traveling through the Imperium, through the Silent Plains, most likely. It was rumored to be the location of Barindur, a bit of mythology tied to the area."

She sighed, realizing that as much as she didn't want to think about him, she had to tell Dorian. "Solas may have mentioned visiting a place called Barindur. Something about it being covered in ash in an instant."

Dorian looked at her carefully, taking in the slight slump of her shoulders, the way that she didn't look directly at him. He swirled his wine and glanced out the window of the nook into the courtyard below. "You're allowed to miss him, you know."

Halea set her goblet down carefully, glad he was looking away so he couldn't see the shine of tears that started welling in her eyes. She picked up a bun and began tearing small bits off of it, dropping the pieces back onto her plate with soft _plinks_.

Dorian sipped from his wine, keeping his eyes on the courtyard. "Not that it's a perfect comparison, but I suspect that I could somewhat understand your conflicted feelings. I know the pain my homeland has caused... _everyone_ , really. Even myself. But I refuse to give up on making it better, making it worthy of my loyalty."

She kept tearing the bun to pieces, tears rolling down her face as her chin trembled. Dorian pretended the courtyard was extremely interesting until she wiped her tears away with her sleeve. "Thank you."

"As I said, not a perfect comparison. But, hopefully, one close enough that you wouldn't feel ashamed to talk of him around me." He picked an apple off of his own plate and held it out to her. She stared at it, and he waved it at her. "You've destroyed your bread. You're a growing Inquisitor, you need to keep your strength up if we're going to make it to Weisshaupt."

She snatched the apple out of his hand with an amused huff. "So, what does Barindur have to do with Weisshaupt?"

"When I was apprenticing to Alexius, and Felix...fell sick from the Blight...all of us looked for any hint of a cure we could. We scoured any writings we could get our hands on, interviewed each scholar, storyteller, and madman that might give us an idea. We knew that the Grey Wardens used some bit of magic in the Joining ceremony to turn the Blight's disease into a temporary strength, but Alexius refused to let us have anything to do with them. He wanted to find a way to make Felix 'pure' again."

Halea shared Dorian's sneer. "Every time I learn something new about him, the more and more sorry I am that I let that _harellan_ live."

"Trust me, Inquisitor, you gave him the right punishment. He has to wake up every day with the pain of knowing his only son is dead and it's his own fucking fault." Dorian drained his goblet in one long drag and immediately refilled it. "When Alexius refused to let us go to the Grey Wardens, which had been the only sensible, realistic option that was left to us, we started exploring legend, folklore, myth, rumor, all of it. One of those myths was of Barindur's fountains that granted eternal youth. We found a scrap of an old, old parchment in one of the oldest libraries in Tevinter."

Dorian plucked another book from the shelf next to him. Halea read the title on the book's spine. " _The Care and Keeping of Nugs_ _?_ "

He winked at her and waved his hand, light sparks jumping from his fingertips to the book. He opened the book, and continued bending it open, folding the back and front cover together. If the librarian had been watching, he would have screamed to see Dorian carelessly break the book's spine in his hands.

Only, when Dorian waved his hand again, the parchment on the outside thinned and became leather, while the leather cover expanded and split apart into many pages.

"I'm very private about my journals," Dorian said with a smirk. He opened the transformed journal in his hands, well worn and stuffed with extra sheets of many different colors of parchment. He finally found the page he was looking for and handed the journal for her to read.

She cleared her throat:

_"And thus, the envoy of the Conductor of the Choir of Silence, High Priest of Dumat, was turned away by Carinatus, the Vanguard of the Wellspring of Sanctuary, High Priest of Usiu, for the Choir of Silence had been exiled from the Wellsp-“_

The passage ended abruptly. She handed the journal back to Dorian. He looked at her expectantly.

She gestured to her face again. " _Dalish_."

"Damn, right, sorry. This scrap is similar to the beginning of almost _every_ story about Barindur _except_ for the part about Carinatus. He's almost always described as the 'High King of Barindur,' but _here_ he's the 'Vanguard of the Wellspring of Sanctuary' and the 'High Priest of Usiu.' _Usiu_." She glared at him and he sighed heavily. "There are only _seven_ Old Gods. _None_ of them are named Usiu. Which means..."

"There's an eighth Old God?"

" _Yes_. At least, if this one scrap of very old parchment can be believed." He looked at the journal, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I don't know why the Imperium would cover up an eighth Old God, or if there even _was_ an eighth Old God. I couldn't find anything else about it in the libraries I had access to. But Weisshaupt, being so close to the Imperium, may have writings on the Imperium that predate its formation and, therefore, may predate the erasure of this eighth Old God."

Halea took a sip of wine, head starting to ache from the roundabout connections Dorian was making. "Alright, so you just want to come to Weisshaupt to prove a theory about an eighth Old God? I'm all for pursuing personal interests, Dorian, but do you really want to go all the way to Weisshaupt for _that_?"

Dorian passed his hand over his face in frustration. "It's more than that, Halea. Here, the end of the passage, 'exiled from the Wellsp-.' Presuming it was supposed to say 'Wellspring,' _and_ that it was connected with Barindur's rumored Fountains of Eternal Youth, _and_ that it was buried by Dumat in a fit of anger for being refused access, there could be something of immense magical power _underneath_ Barindur's remains. Immense, _ancient_ magical power."

A shiver ran along her skin. "Immense, ancient magical power...like what Solas would go after?"

Dorian nodded. "It would have to be something extremely powerful to warrant burying an entire _kingdom_ for refusing its access to the High Priest of Dumat." He ran a hand over his journal. "It's too much supposition to suggest we go to the Tevinter Imperium, dig underneath where Barindur _might_ have been, and hope that there's an entire spring of ancient, raw magic without more proof. And more proof may lie in Weisshaupt. I want to find that proof."

Halea took a bite out of the apple, chewing slowly. Thinking.

It was more of a lead than they had at the moment.

And what was the harm of bringing Dorian instead of someone else to Weisshaupt with her? They didn't often go on missions together but...she technically had an opening in her usual retinue.

She held her hand out to Dorian. "Congratulations, Dorian, you're coming to Weisshaupt."


	5. Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet your new (maybe) friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Halea~

They traveled through Ferelden and Orlais, as far on the roads as they could, until they reached the city of Churneau. From Churneau, they went north, entering into Nevarra to stop in Perendale, an odd blend of both Orlais and Nevarra. They carefully restocked their supplies, determined to head straight into the foothills of the Hunterhorn Mountains. The trek was difficult from there, the rocky terrain and dry winds making it difficult to conserve their water.

The dark skies from the constant dust winds cast a pall over the group's mood as well as the land around them. Halea had chosen to bring Varric and Iron Bull along with Dorian, herself, and Alistair. She felt a little guilty bringing along Varric, knowing that while he was up for an adventure, journeying to the dusty wastelands of the Anderfels wasn't quite the kind of adventure he thrived in. But of all the other companions, he was the only one available who could also lift her spirits as she learned to live without Solas. Or, with Solas as an enemy.

She had tried to bring Blackwall along, too, but he declined nervously. He said he'd rather stay and help with fighting against Corypheus than travel to Weisshaupt. He murmured something about 'payback for the fallen Wardens' and left quickly. He had been agitated since they came out of the Fade, wandering around as if looking for something that he couldn't remember he'd lost. When questioning Alistair about the woman none of them remembered, he had mentioned the woman and Blackwall had a close relationship, one of teacher and student. Halea let Blackwall be, and invited Iron Bull instead, with the explicit direction that both he and Dorian set up their tents at a distance from the rest of them whenever they made camp. Dorian and Iron Bull weren't shy about their relationship, but Halea knew she and the others would need their sleep as they traveled. And it was very, very difficult to sleep when Dorian and Iron Bull were within earshot.

The weeks-long journey ended when they came to Broken Tooth, a mountain with stone structures built into one of its sides. Halea could clearly see how the mountain it sat on got its name: the other side was so sheer it looked as if it had been cleaved off with an almost surgical precision. She wondered if the other half of the mountain had been shorn down slowly as Weisshaupt was built up.

The fortress covered the side of the mountain, stone arches soaring upwards and many sharp-peaked roofs pointing to the sky. The steep path from the base of the mountain led to a weathered gatehouse. Alistair waved at a vague shape at the top of the gatehouse battlements, and a few moments later the wooden portcullis blocking their path began rising. Several heavy metal portcullises were suspended above them as they moved through the gatehouse, seemingly rusted from lack of use.

Alistair had warned them not to expect much from Weisshaupt. Although the fortress was large enough to house thousands, only a few Grey Wardens currently occupied it. Much of the fortress had fallen into neglect. Halea couldn't help but compare it to the state of Skyhold when they had first arrived. Quite a bit of the fortress was intact, but only just. They made their way to the main hall in the center of the fortress, walking along crumbling cobblestone pathways past windows that were as likely to be broken as they were to be whole. A large human in polished armor waited outside the hall for them.

Halea had expected the First Warden to meet them, but instead they met the Warden-Commander of the Anderfels, Dernheim. He was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, and almost as tall as Iron Bull. The top half of the human's face bore fine white scars that created patterns of lines and swirls, the Orth tradition reminding Halea of the Dalish _vallaslin_. His scars covered his face and his bald head, even marking along the edges of his ears. The bottom half of his face was hidden behind a beard of dark curls that spilled onto his chest. His dark eyes took them in carefully.

Dernheim and Alistair clasped forearms, nodding to one another.

"Glad the Orlesian Wardens didn't catch you," Dernheim said by way of greeting. Unlike his stern exterior, his voice was warm and friendly. A bright smile spread across the man's patterned face, then dropped quickly. "Too bad about Clarel, and the Wardens lost. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance."

"In death, sacrifice," Alistair nodded, completing the Grey Warden's creed. "Let's hope their sacrifice won't be completely in vain."

"The whole shitstorm ended with our partnership with the Inquisition. First Warden's pretty pleased with that." Dernheim nodded to Halea. "Guess we have you to thank for letting the Orlais chapter stay?" He held out a massive arm towards Halea. "We owe you our thanks, Inquisitor."

She took his forearm as Alistair had. "Halea. And I don't know that you should thank me, we're expecting a lot of assistance from the Wardens in Orlais."

Dernheim waved Halea's statement away. "That's Warden-Commander Stroud's problem, not mine. Good luck to them. How can the _Anderfels_ chapter of the Grey Wardens assist you, Inquisitor?"

"Anderfels chapter, not Weisshaupt?"

Dernheim smiled, the sincere warmth throwing Halea off again. "Anderfels chapter uses Weisshaupt as our main base. It just so happens to be the seat of the First Warden, too. I'm the one helping you, not the First Warden. Don't think you'd really want his help, anyway, unless it was something to do with court and politics. But you're not here to talk Warden hierarchy."

"No, we're here to get a look at your library."

Dernheim nodded. "Then follow me. I'll take you to Thaasen."

Dernheim lead them down various pathways and corridors until they arrived at another immense building. He threw open the doors and strode in, loudly calling out, "Thaasen? Where are you hiding?"

A faint "Here!" came from deep inside the body of the library. Dernheim waited for a moment, then shook his head with a bemused smile. "Looks like it's hide-and-seek for you all. Good luck. I'll come find you when its mealtime."

Alistair went off with Dernheim, needing to make an official report of the events that lead to Adamant Fortress, and Iron Bull went with them, interested in finding their training grounds. Halea heard Dernheim say something about a stiff drink before the library doors closed behind them.

Dorian walked up to the nearest bookcase and ran a finger along one of the shelves. The tip of his finger was coated in a thick layer of dust. He pinched the dust between his fingers. "These tomes look to be at least as old as the library in Tevinter where I found that parchment. Maybe even older. Perfect! Let's find that librarian."

Even with all three of them searching, it took them much longer to find the Chamberlin of the Grey than they had expected. The hem of a robe was just visible poking out into one of the aisles. Thassen was tucked into a small nook between two massive bookcases, their head buried in a tome almost as big as they were. They didn't look up at Halea until she tapped the top of the gigantic book they were reading.

She jumped back when they lifted their head, a spell sparking in her hand until she realized the eerily blank face in front of her was a simple Orlesian-style mask. "Ah, Chamberlin of the Grey, I presume?"

Halea could see the glint of eyes behind the mask's plain white porcelain. Supple leather straps held the mask to their face, their dusty ash-blonde hair pulled back in thick braids to create anchors for the mask's straps. The voice that came through the opening in the mask was hoarse, as if they weren't used to using it, but they spoke with excitement.

"Ah, yes, of course, hello hello! I was just doing a bit more research to prepare for your arrival." They shut the giant tome and set it down on the floor, standing to take one of Halea's hands in both of theirs and shaking heartily. "Welcome! I am Thaasen, the Chamberlain of the Grey! You may call me Chamberlain Thaasen, or Warden Thaasen. Chamberlain of the Grey is the official title, and I like it but it’s really just a fancy name for Librarian and it’s too long! Just Chamberlain is perfectly fine, Warden also suits me."

Halea couldn't help but smile at the Chamberlain's enthusiasm. They dipped and turned their head as they spoke, the movements acting as their expression since their mask was solid and unyielding.

Varric sidled up to Halea, following the sound of Chamberlain Thassen's voice. "A fellow dwarf, huh? What brought you up here to the surface?"

Chamberlain Thaasen took Varric's hand in both of theirs as well. "The Grey Wardens are the ones who gave me the chance to see the sky, and learn about the rest of the world, and to exist as myself. I couldn't do that in Kal-Sharok.”

"Kal-Sharok?" Varric said in wonder. "You're from _Kal-Sharok_ _?_ " Halea tilted her head in confusion, and Varric shook his head in disbelief. "Kal-Sharok was thought to be an abandoned thaig, lost to Darkspawn in the First Blight. Turns out, they _survived_ , just cut off from the rest of the kingdoms. Orzammar finally got in contact with them ten years ago. They weren't too happy about being forgotten."

Chamberlain Thaasen nodded their head excitedly. "Yes! We traded with the surface a little, but we didn't really start getting any exposure to anyone until we started communicating with Orzammar. A lot of the elders resent Orzammar for forgetting about us, and that once they _did_ remember us they wanted us to bow to them. Not a lot of love was lost, or found, between the two."

"So how'd you go form Kal-Sharok to becoming a Grey Warden?" Varric asked, eyes glinting with curiosity.

"Follow me!" Chamberlain Thaasen spun down the aisle and walked quickly further into the library, talking the whole way. "Well, when we re-established communication with Orzammar, nasty rumors about the outside world spread around the thaig. The rumors were supposed to _discourage_ us from wanting to go to the surface or the other kingdoms, but I found them _fascinating_. I _wanted_ to go, and I eventually annoyed the elders enough that they kicked me out!"

"And that was a good thing?" Halea asked, having to walk quickly to keep up with the masked dwarf.

"Yes! One of the Grey Warden recruiters found me, and I passed the Joining, and now I'm here!"

They passed by other bookcases quickly, collecting Dorian on the way. They ended up in a small room in the back corner of the library. Half of the room was dedicated to a long table covered with small jars of ink and glue, spools of thread, strips of leather, and stacks of parchment. The other half of the room held three desks, each covered in tomes and papers.

Chamberlain Thaasen cleared off three stools, hidden underneath stacks of paper and books, pushing them towards Halea, Varric, and Dorian. They grabbed other papers and tomes from various stacks, seemingly at random, as the others took their seats. "So, you're looking for ancient, magical items, correct? Items of immense power, must be magical?"

"And preferably findable," Dorian added. "Dorian Pavus, by the way."

"Chamberlain Thaasen, so nice to meet you!" They set their stack haphazardly on top of another pile of materials, thrusting both hands out to take one of Dorian's and shaking vigorously. They picked up the collected stack and started handing out various papers and books. "So, here's everything I've found so far on magical items that are also ancient and powerful. I didn't know to look for ones that are also locatable, so I'll have to refine my hunt, but these should be good places to start!"

Halea looked over the papers in her hands, recognizing a few of the markings as runes similar to the ones revealed by Veilfire that Solas had pointed out to her. She kept her eyes on the markings, an idea coming to her. "Chamberlain Thaasen? Do you have any writings on the elven gods? Fen'Harel in particular?"

Chamberlain Thaasen tilted their head side-to-side. "Hmm, yes? Yes. I believe we do. We should. Not any fireside stories, though, but possibly? Would you like me to pull them?"

"And anything you have on Barindur," Dorian added casually.

Chamberlain Thaasen stopped, turning their masked stare at him, then at Halea and Varric in turn. " _Barindur?_ Interesting, very interesting. Ancient magical items that are both powerful and findable, writings on Fen'Harel, _and_ information on a rumored lost kingdom? How interesting! The Inquisition is up to some very, _very_ interesting things! I haven't had this much to look for since Warden Theirin asked about the red lyrium!"

Varric cleared his throat. "Speaking of red lyrium, I'd be interested to take a look at anything you have on that."

Chamberlain Thaasen began excitedly plucking other books and pieces of parchment from other piles, moving around the small room like a bee flying from flower to flower. "You three are going to keep me on my toes! Yes, yes!”

Chamberlain Thaasen swept out of the office with an armful of materials. They had to scramble to follow, each carrying their own little piles. Down another aisle of the massive library was a small reading area with a few well-worn tables.

Chamberlain Thaasen set their pile of materials down on one of the tables, disturbing a layer of dust that was thin compared to the first shelf Dorian had inspected, but still sent a few light clouds drifting through the sunlight that came in through windows set high into the walls. They motioned for the others to do the same with their own piles, pointing at several other tables.

“Alright, well, well, this table will be for items located in the southern part of Thedas,” they motioned to their own table. They gestured to Varric. “Yours is for Northern Thedas. Inquisitor, place your things on Varric’s table. And Dorian, right? Yes, Dorian, add your pile to my table.” They nodded, pleased with the two piles. “But we have much more to look for, yes? Or, _I_ have much more to look for. Barindur, red lyrium, Fen’Harel, correct?”

The three nodded and Chamberlain Thaasen swept off again. They waited a moment until Thaasen’s voice called behind them. “Start sorting through the piles and see what fits your criteria!”

The Chamberlain was gone for well over an hour, but Halea, Varric, and Dorian had their hands full sifting through the hundreds of documents and books spread out between the two tables. They were able to whittle down both piles, separating out writings that referenced vague, impossible, or weak items, or that were too general to provide a location. Their leads seemed evenly spread between northern and southern Thedas, which would keep Leliana’s scouts and Cullen’s forces busy. Those that could be spared, anyway. Halea had kept up correspondence with the Advisors over their travels, sending and receiving ravens and sometimes the odd messenger. Their skirmishes with Corypheus’ forces were relatively mild, and much fewer had happened than Halea had expected. Which made her wonder exactly where Corypheus was, and what he had up his mutated sleeve.

Finally, Chamberlain Thaasen came back to the reading area, arms laden with even more papers and tomes of various ages and sizes. They glanced at the lack of empty spaces on the few tables around them, and nodded enthusiastically. “Good, good! You seem to have done an excellent job! Move the discards to here, and the keeps to here.” They motioned to two tables with flicks of their head. They sat their pile of newly gathered materials on a free table as the three shifted their documents around.

“Were you able to find information about our inquiries?” Dorian asked hopefully.

“Yes, I was! Oh, yes!” They were already swiftly sorting out their new haul into three piles. They tapped a fairly thin one. “Not much on Barindur, unfortunately, but maybe there’s something in here. We have more on Fen’Harel,” they tapped another pile, a little larger, “but not nearly as much as I had hoped. And we have quite a bit on red lyrium, much of it new! Luckily, Warden Theirin’s previous requests for the information meant it was still pretty much gathered together!” The third pile was just slightly thicker than the one for the Dread Wolf, but the parchment and books appeared to be less aged than the others they were surrounded with.

Dorian looked at the short stack of materials for Barindur with an arched eyebrow. “That _is_ less than I hoped for. Perhaps I should also ask for information on the Old Gods?”

Chamberlain Thaasen clapped their hands. “I’m sure I could find something! Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve been sent on a good, thorough search!” They swept away again without another word.

They each went to their individual stacks of materials. Varric looked over his with interest, but set it aside after a few minutes and returned to the ‘keeps’ table to look through them more closely. Dorian took his stack and sat at one of the empty tables, spreading the papers and books before him and immersing himself fully in what the Chamberlain had found him.

Halea laid a hand gently on the stack with information about Fen’Harel. She snatched her hand away when she realized it was the one with the mark. Dorian and Varric both glanced at her, attention drawn by her sudden movement, then looked at one another, before carefully returning to their own work. She stared at the stack, wondering what she would find. Was she ready to look into him more, now that she knew who Solas was?

Was she ready to find who he had been between the lines of elvish myth and lore?

She turned her back on the stack and joined Varric. He didn’t say anything to her, just handed her the book he had been thumbing through. She accepted it, and buried herself in research.

* * *

  
Chamberlain Thaasen allowed Halea to take the untouched materials on Fen’Harel to the room she had been given. She hesitantly explained that she wanted to look through the information in private, and although the Chamberlain had cocked their head at her, they’d nodded after considering her for a moment much longer than she was comfortable with. She’d dropped them off in her room, then joined everyone for dinner in Weisshaupt’s dining hall. They met up with Warden-Commander Dernheim and Iron Bull, listening to the two exchange stories of training and battle. Halea’s eyes burned from dust and reading, but she was glad to listen to their exciting tales and their easy laughter. They finally saw other Grey Wardens as they joined them in the dining hall. Most Wardens came in waves, some gathering food then leaving immediately, others joining small groups scattered among the tables, chatting easily and lingering over empty bowls and tankards. The meal was simple, a vegetable soup with decent ale and surprisingly good rolls of warm rye bread. Their own group lingered, getting a few refills on their ale from large barrels along the sides of the dining hall.

Halea lingered the longest. Varric stayed with her, telling her stories from Kirkwall to distract her from her own thoughts. But he eventually had to bid her goodnight. “Try to get some sleep, Inquisitor. Although I get the feeling you’re going to stay up reading.”

She’d smiled at him. “You know me all too well.”

He’d shaken his head. “Too bad it won’t be with any decent reading, like one of _my_ novels. But, to each their own.”

Halea downed the last half of her tankard of ale quietly, the dining hall unlit except for a few candles that still shone around her. She finally plucked one up, blew out the others, and went back to her room. She had to know who he was, before. The easiest way would have been to ask him directly. She knew she couldn’t, so she would have to settle for deciphering the stories he’d left in his wake.

She tried to ignore the way her heart grew hollow at the thought of never standing with him in the study, chatting about ancient history and the Fade and the nature of everything.

But as soon as she looked at the first few words, her eyes blurred.

Watery from the dust and the long hours of reading, she lied to herself.

She snuffed out the candle and climbed into bed, leaving the pile untouched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am making up a BUNCH of stuff on top of using pieces of lore that haven't been fully explained yet, I really hope it makes sense!


	6. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Restless nights when hollow hearts wander in the emptiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Halea~  
> —-  
> ~Solas~

She lay in an unfamiliar bed. She was expected to sleep. 

She couldn’t.

She lay on her side. She stared at the faint glow in her palm.

She curled in on herself, trying to fill the emptiness in herself with herself.

She wasn’t enough.

She pressed the glow to her chest, over the shattered remnants of her heart. She felt the pulse, the sting of each shard, and she felt the emptiness between the fractures.

She felt longing echoing in the emptiness.

She was made of shards of glass scattered in the hollow space of herself.

She mourned the emptiness within her.

It wasn’t just that he had left her empty.

It wasn’t just that he had taken part of her with him.

Although she knew he had done both.

It was that she tried to fill the emptiness, moment after moment, fingers reaching, gathering scattered pieces, and she remained hollow.

Each time she found a few shards and tried to put them together, she ended up bleeding instead.

She was just scattered pieces in a hollow shell.

And the stings and cuts of the remnants of her heart in the emptiness and loneliness was a soft, persistent pain that never eased.

Sometimes she buried it. Put armor made of nothing to dampen it.

Purpose meant nothing.

Mission meant nothing.

The smiles she gave and received

All

Meant

Nothing.

She was nothing.

Sometimes that nothingness helped.

But it didn’t last.

She pressed the glowing palm harder to her chest, as if she could crack through the bone and illuminate the hollowness, the pieces of her heart glittering in the weak light.

To fill it with something other than emptiness and shattered pieces.

She couldn’t.

She wasn’t enough.

She was nothing.

She felt the absence of his arms around her, the cold at her back where his warmth would have been.

The loneliness, the hollowness, the emptiness, forced tears from her when she thought she had none.

She felt herself cry, and willed the last few pieces of her shattered heart into the weak glow.

Maybe, if there was still any connection between the two halves of the magic that had bound them together, he would feel their sting, too.

She thought she heard keening cries, soft and distant as if carried to her on the wind.

But perhaps she imagined it.  


* * *

He lay in a familiar bed. He was expected to sleep.

He couldn’t.

He lay on his side, his body curving around an empty space he longed to be occupied.

Regret wound itself around him, creeping up his body until he was encased by the raw emotion so completely that he couldn’t see anything else.

He cut through the regret every morning, and every night, without fail, it grew back, thicker each time.

Once the regret took hold, the sorrow wasn’t far behind.

It rushed into the empty space regret trapped him in, drowning him in stages.

It rushed into his throat, choking him, making him struggle for breath.

He tried to focus on his mission.

  
He focused on what he had promised

To himself

To those long dead

To the broken and limping world.

No matter how much he struggled, how much he fought and clawed to break his way out of the depths, he was dragged back down every night.

The promise of an end forced him onward, forced him to fight each night, rather than stay trapped and drowning in the depths of his loneliness.

Surrounded yet completely alone.

Her love had felt like a whisper of home. Of everyone in this forsaken, twisted world, she was able to help him lift his head.

And he had tried to cut her out of him.

He couldn’t. 

She was still his comfort, even if that comfort was now a distant, painful memory.

Each night, he would fool himself into thinking he could feel his arms around her.

Each night, he would imagine, for the briefest moment, the warmth of her against his chest.

He tried not to, tried to push away the memories, to push away how he’d curled around her at night, to push away how she had folded into him.

He failed.

Each night.

The sorrow he choked on finally made its way through him, seeping out in creeping, keening wails.

He pressed his glowing palm to his mouth, suppressing the mournful cries so that well-meaning followers wouldn’t interrupt his grief.

He had failed her. 

He had forsaken her.

It was necessary, and it was cruel.

He poured the sorrow and regret into the dim light, wishing she could hear him.

Wishing she knew that he drowned for his sins against her every night.

Sometimes he thought he could feel her through the half-mark buried in his hand.

An odd spasm of his fingers.

A pulse in his palm.

An ache that would rise through the bone.

Perhaps he willed them to be signs.

Perhaps he imagined them altogether.

He thought he felt the sting of glass pricking against his palm.

He gazed at it, seeing nothing but weak light.


	7. Crumbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take what you can get

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Halea~

Halea woke after too little sleep with the faintest memories of wails fading away with the night sky.

Breakfast was a casual affair, more rye rolls with cheese and dried meat on offer, and coffee, tea, and ale. Most of the Wardens carried their food out so they could get started on the day's tasks.

Halea ate quickly and went to take on her own task: researching in the library.

She found she was the first one there, and wandered the library a bit. Row after row of dusty bookcases stuffed with books and scrolls and parchments lined the library's massive room. She glanced over the titles as she wandered. Chamberlain Thaasen's organization system must have been one of their own making, because it made no sense to Halea. An actual copy of _The Care and Keeping of Nugs_ was shelved next to _An History of the Nevarran Peoples,_ with maps of what looked to be Seheron stuffed between them.

Halea wandered down one aisle and saw a stone archway at the end, leading to an almost-hidden room. She walked in and stopped, her breath stolen by the sight before her.

A dias of white marble in the center of the room held a sarcophagus made almost entirely of glass. Behind the sarcophagus, two tall, twisting statues, painted dark and shaped like curving, sharp tree trunks, rose up to the height of the surprisingly tall room, their tips shrouded in shadow where light from the high windows didn't quite reach. She edged closer to the sarcophagus, staring at the box of thin dark metal and flawless diamond-shaped panes. Through the panes, she could make out what looked to be silver metal armor and riding leathers. A short bow and quiver rested on either side of the armor. She stared at the sarcophagus, entranced, until a voice startled her.

"That's Garahel's sarcophagus," Chamberlain Thaasen said quietly.

"Garahel?" Halea asked, her voice as quiet as the Chamberlain's.

Chamberlain Thaasen shook their head, somehow making their mask look disappointed. "The elven Grey Warden who slew the Archdemon Andoral to end the Fourth Blight. I'm surprised you haven't heard of him, being an elf and all. Although, he was from an alienage, not a Dalish elf like yourself. Maybe that's why you haven't heard of him?"

Halea stared at the sarcophagus. "I didn't really pay attention to the stories my clan told...he might have been mentioned. Maybe...something about griffons?"

"Yes!" Chamberlain Thaasen's voice lifted in enthusiasm but still retained the quiet volume. "Crookytail, his griffon was called. Garahel and Crookytail defeated Andoral alone, against all the odds. Garahel's life was amazing, if too brief. I could pull some materials for you, if you'd like. His is a life worth learning about. Much like your's is going to be, I'm sure!"

Halea ignored the last comment. "And what are those statues?"

" _Statues_?!" The Chamberlain stepped back in shock. "Those are _Andoral's horns_!"

Halea turned back to the tall, curving horns. They were _huge_ , so large that she couldn't even imagine how large Andoral must have been. "Are all Archdemons so... _big_?"

"Most of them so far, yes. Warden Theirin and the Hero of Ferelden confirmed as much when they made statements about slaying Urthemiel ten years ago."

Halea looked around the small room, suddenly uncomfortable staring at the horns of a dead Archdemon. On the right wall was a ring of very old and well-used weapons: a warhammer, a greatsword, a longsword, a staff, a dagger, and a bow. In the center of the ring was a large, battered wooden shield with the Grey Warden emblem painted crudely on it.

On the opposite wall was a huge tapestry, ancient but well kept. Twisted creatures Halea recognized as Darkspawn crawled out of the earth in one corner, while a wicked-looking Archdemon took up another.

Chamberlain Thaasen saw her shift her gaze. "Ah, the First Blight. Everything from the first emergence of the Darkspawn through the final slaying of the first Archdemon, Dumat, is captured in those threads."

" _Final_ slaying?"

Chamberlain Thaasen shifted on their feet. "I'd love to tell you about it, maybe back in the library, though? Garahel deserves more...focus, than this."

Halea's cheeks flared hot. She might not have known much about Garahel, but from what little she had just heard, she knew the Chamberlain was right. If they were in a memorial room for him, they should have been focused on _him_. She turned to move towards the door, Chamberlain Thaasen leading the way. "I think I _would_ like to know more about Garahel, please," she said as they exited.

The Chamberlain nodded without looking at her, but their voice was louder and much more cheerful now that they were out of the small shrine. "Of course! Oh, and, did you get to those writings? About Fen'Harel? Were they what you were looking for?"

Halea sighed. "Not yet. I...was very tired."

Chamberlain Thaasen laughed. "I hope you were able to rest, then! I've got plans to bring many more materials to you three. Another day full of research awaits!"

* * *

Dorian and Varric joined them not long afterwards. Halea had expected both of them to sleep in later, but it seemed that they were just as eager to get leads on artifacts to stop Solas as she was.

Chamberlain Thaasen swept in and out of the study corner, carrying in materials and whisking others away. Dorian split his attention between the little that the Chamberlain had brought him about Barindur and the various papers and books on magical items in the northern parts of Thedas. Varric was engrossed by the research on red lyrium, often looking up and asking Chamberlain Thaasen to gather more information on lyrium, dwarven mining, and the ancient references to Titans and thaigs long-lost or forgotten.

Halea had left all of the literature on Fen’Harel in her room, preferring to concentrate on the items mentioned in writings from southern Thedas instead of the propagandized life of her…What was he to her, now? Was he still her _vehnan_? Twisted and broken, but hers all the same? Or was he merely her enemy? She thought back to the whispered wails of the night before, then took a deep breath and pushed them away, picking up yet another piece of ancient parchment.

The days continued like that for longer than she was comfortable with. Their days were spent in the library, researching, coming up empty or with more questions than before, broken up only by meals and sleep. Iron Bull had become bored enough that he’d started inserting himself in random patrols through the mountains with other Grey Wardens and the few scattered recruits who were training for their Joinings.

Each night, Halea would retire to her room, stare at the documents in a pile on her desk, and choose instead to lie in bed. Alone, she splintered into ever-smaller pieces of herself until the sun rose and she forced herself to gather all the little pieces, force them back together, get up, and meet the others in the dining hall.

As the documents on magical items were whittled down, Halea began asking for documents about the Grey Warden Garahel. Then about griffons. And previous Blights. And Darkspawn. And anything else she could think of that was as far-removed from Solas, Fen’Harel, and elven gods as possible. Chamberlain Thaasen provided her with any information she asked for, provided they could find it, but each time she asked for something else, they tilted their head, their mask taking on an almost curious expression with the simple motion. They never asked her _why_ she wanted the unrelated information, and had stopped asking about the documents on Fen’Harel after the first few days of her dodging their friendly inquiries. The last time the Chamberlain had mentioned the documents was when they gave her a polite but firm warning: “Take all the time you need with those documents, Inquisitor, but remember that those documents belong to Weisshaupt, and I expect _all_ of them back, in the condition they were given to you in.”

Finally, after what felt like years, they had a list of magical items to investigate - plus Barindur’s fountains, if Dorian could provide enough solid evidence to make an expeditious trip into the Deep Roads worth it. The next logical step was to send the list back to Skyhold, so the Advisors could find leads on the items’ locations.

Halea stood in the rookery with the strip of parchment in her hand, staring at it. The thin strip was ready to be rolled up and sent with one of Leliana’s crows, but she hesitated. Leliana was a good spymaster and had routed out a lot of the agents Solas had inserted into the Inquisition, yet still _more_ agents were uncovered when he escaped from the cells of Skyhold. Who was to say there weren’t even _more_ agents among their ranks? Leliana had concentrated on Solas’ people, but what of other organizations, like The Crows? She pocketed the parchment, scrawled some nonsense on another, and sent the crow winging back to Skyhold with the false message.

She told the others that night at dinner, once most of the dining hall was empty. Iron Bull had nodded at her with solemn respect.

“Good instinct, Boss,” was all he said. He had told her when she hired him and The Chargers that he had to be loyal to the Ben-Hassrath, and the Qun, first.

Warden-Commander Dernheim had watched the short exchange without surprise, subdued despite his tendency to warm smiles and loud laughs. He pulled Halea aside after they started breaking up for the evening, motioning with a quiet nod of his head for her to follow him.

They ended up back in the small chamber devoted to the glass sarcophagus holding Garahel’s armor. The chamber was dark, since Chamberlain Thaasen didn’t bother to light _all_ the torches around the library when most evenings they were by themself. Halea saw an unlit torch and made the motions to create Veilfire without thinking. The memory of standing on the snow-covered mountainside that first night with Solas, his patient lesson in Veilfire, his half-true story about the Anchor’s origin ringing in her ears. Her anger and guilt twisted her heart, stopping her just short of casting the ghostly green fire, and she settled instead for regular, orange flames. The torchlight danced across the glass panes of the sarcophagus, shining back with thousands of smaller torches.

“Based on The Iron Bull’s comment, there’s a problem with leaks in the Inquisition, I take it?” Dernheim asked, his eyes on the ring of battered weapons hung on the wall of the shrine. “Is he one of the problems?”

Halea’s heart sank a little, and she was surprised each time it found a new depth to rest in. “I’ve wondered. But he was honest with me about his loyalties. I still hired him.”

Dernheim glanced at her skeptically, the expression looking out of place on a face that was given to wide grins and hearty laughs. “So he serves two masters? Spying on the second master for the first, with _permission?_ ”

Halea looked back at the glass sarcophagus, the corners of her mouth tugging down in a grimace. “I don’t know that Bull would call _anyone_ his ‘master.’ At least he gave me fair warning. We both wanted the same thing, to fix the more _pressing_ issues of The Breach and Corypheus.”

Dernheim turned to her, his expression remaining serious but his words tainted with skepticism. “Would you have kept your lover around if he’d told you about _his_ spies, then?” 

Rage flashed through Halea, indignant at the Warden-Commander’s tone. She tried to mask it as impatience. “Is there a point to this conversation, or did you just want to unwind before bed by insulting me?”

He sighed and walked over to Andoral’s horns, running a hand along one. He looked as small as a child next to them. “No. I wanted to commiserate. And help.” He turned back to her. “You saw the kinds of problems the Grey Wardens have when you went to Adamant Fortress. We’re not a perfect organization, and more than a few of us Warden-Commanders know it. We’ve figured out how to communicate with each other _more_ than just privately. _Secretly_. So far, we haven’t had any leaks from _those_ conversations.”

“I’m guessing it’s not by crows or couriers?”

Instead of answering, Dernheim removed a pair of jagged rocks from a small pouch at his belt. He whispered a word to one and handed it to her, keeping the other. It was slightly crystalline and translucent, like quartz, only with a distinct blue tinge and a slight telltale glow.

She opened her mouth to ask why he had handed her a lyrium-infused rock, but he stepped to the other side of the chamber instead. He motioned for her to hold the rock up to her ear as he held his to his mouth.

“We’ve found this to be an effective form of private communication, no matter how far the distance,” his voice whispered in her ear.

She stared at the rock, then at him. She held it to her own mouth and whispered back, “What are these?”

“Speaking stones,” Dernheim answered in his normal voice, walking back towards her. He took her stone and whispered another word to them, most likely deactivating them. “A pair of very motivated Wardens created them. Originally it was to speak with each other _privately_ when they were apart,” he said with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows, “but they eventually made some for the rest of us.”

He placed them back in the pouch, then removed it from his belt and handed it to Halea. “Here. Two stones, plus a parchment with the activation and deactivation words. A gift.”

Halea took the bag gently. “And a way to make sure your ally has as little trouble keeping its secrets as possible.”

Dernheim grinned again. “Just so. Send one of these back to someone you trust. The stones are activated and deactivated, and no one can listen in through any other speaking stones. Now, scrying and good, old-fashioned eavesdropping are still concerns. But at least no one can call the wrong stone, eh?”

“Thank you, Warden-Commander.”

He dipped his head in a light bow and bade her goodnight, leaving her to contemplate the stones in the glittering light cast by the glass sarcophagus from the lone lit torch.

* * *

In the end, she’d asked Alistair to travel back to Skyhold with the speaking stone. He had finished his reporting in the first few days of their arrival in Weisshaupt. The rest of the time, he’d either wandered the empty halls like a ghost or fought to absolute exhaustion in the training grounds. Halea suspected that was doing him more harm than good, and Leliana’s words echoed in her mind: ‘ _He needs the Inquisition more than the Wardens.’_

He’d agreed, and Halea could see his spirits lift, even if it was just by a few inches. Perhaps it was because Cole was still at Skyhold. Cole was the only one who could remember the mysterious woman who had disappeared, the woman that Alistair missed so dearly but none of them could remember. Halea understood the pain that came with not being able to speak about the person you loved. She, at least, had Dorian’s offer as her confidant in heart-related matters. Not that she had taken up on his offer, yet. She would, _after_ she read the materials on Fen’Harel that still lay untouched in her room.

Dorian must have read her mind, because on the morning Alistair left for Skyhold, he’d knocked on her door and strode into her room without waiting for an answer. “Seems like we have an entire week before we can expect to _hear_ back from the group at Skyhold. Let’s dig into these documents that you’ve so eagerly hidden away in here, hmm? Got your parchment and quill ready?”

“Good morning to you, too, Dorian.” Halea crossed her arms, but she couldn’t help smiling at his endearing gall.

“No time for pleasantries. If I take the time to exchange pleasantries with you, you’d no doubt derail my entire mission.”

“Which is?”

Dorian picked up the first document in the pile, then sat on Halea’s bed, adjusting the pillows so he could lean comfortably against the headboard. “To get you out of the not-so-subtle funk you’ve been in since Solas fled.”

Most of the time, Halea appreciated Dorian’s habit of being straightforward with her.

Sometimes, she did not.

“Dorian, I really-”

He held up the parchment, ignoring her, and began reading. “ _T_ _he Keeper of the_ _Ralaferin clan, Gisharel_ _ , honored me with a rendition of a tale about the Dalish trickster god, Fen’Harel. It went as follows: _ _‘ In ancient times, only Fen’Harel could walk without fear among both our gods and the Forgotten Ones._ _’_ ” He stopped and looked at Halea curiously. “Who, or what, are the Forgotten Ones?”

“Dorian, can we-” He looked back to the parchment and opened his mouth to keep reading. “Okay, _fine_. You win.”

He smirked at her. “I’m glad you conceded so easily. Now, about those Forgotten Ones?”

She sat at the foot of the bed, facing him. “The Forgotten Ones are the mirrors of the Creators, the dark to the light. If the Creators stand for growth, goodness, and nurturing, then the Forgotten Ones stand for decay, disease, and mayhem.”

“What else?”

Halea shrugged. “They’re supposed to have been locked away in the abyss, by Fen’Harel.”

“The ‘abyss?’ Sounds unpleasant.”

“It’s supposed to be. It keeps with the whole dark-and-light theme: the Forgotten Ones are trapped in the abyss, and the Creators are trapped in some heavenly place.”

“By Fen’Harel.”

Halea nodded. “According to all the stories the Keeper told us. But Solas,” she paused slightly at his name, “said that the stories were exaggerated propaganda, made to cast the Creators in a positive and divine light. That really, they were a bunch of power-hungry mages who _thought_ they were gods and used their powers to rule over the Elvhen.”

Dorian spoke carefully, keeping his voice steady and his eyes on the parchment. “Do you want to start referring to his entirety as just 'Solas?' Or would you like to start using his other name?”

Solas was Fen’Harel. And Fen’Harel was Solas. He had begun his life as Solas, millenia ago, and Fen’Harel was a name forced on him that he made his own. _Was_ Solas, the Solas she thought she knew, the same as the Fen’Harel in the stories? Or should she keep them separate? _Could_ she keep them separate? She thought about how strange it would be if the name she knew him by and his other name became interchangeable. But it wasn’t quite right to refer to the legends about him as _him_ , when they were supposedly written by the followers of his enemies.

“When what we know is a fact, we should use ‘Solas.’ We can use ‘Fen’Harel’ for the unconfirmed information from stories and legends.” Her words were confident, but her voice sounded strained all the same.

Dorian, for his credit, simply nodded. “So would it be better to say that _Fen’Harel_ locked the two god-like groups away, or _Solas_?”

“Solas. He admitted that he created the Veil to lock away the Creators. He didn’t really talk about the Forgotten Ones, though...”

Dorian glanced around. “I wasn’t joking about that parchment and quill, we need to write this down to keep it all organized!”

They spent the rest of the morning going through the information the Chamberlain had given her, sorting out the purely legendary tales and writing down the hints and references to what Fen’Harel had done so long ago. Halea was glad that Dorian had stormed into her bedroom and forced her to start on this. She was even more glad that she was with someone who wouldn’t shame her for how she still felt about Solas.

They filled several pieces of parchment with Fen’Harel-related information. They’d sorted out the names of the Forgotten Ones that weren’t really all _that_ forgotten: Anaris, Geldauran, Daern’thal. They had seemingly lived freely in ‘the abyss’ (since Andruil had once  literally hunted for them  and had gone mad, according to legend) until they were trapped there. The abyss might also be called The Void. Or not. The ‘heavenly place’ where the Creators, or the Evanuris, were supposed to be trapped was also referred to as  The Eternal City. Which might be  The Golden City that was now The Black City. Or not. Fen’Harel told the Creators and the Forgotten Ones to stay in their dwelling places while he drew up terms for a truce for both of them, then betrayed them and trapped them in those places instead. Or, as a different version of  The Great Betrayal  that caught Halea’s eye claimed, that instead of a truce, Fen’Harel had told each of them that he had made some sort of weapon that would give their side the advantage and end the gods’ war, and he had hidden it in their realms. The parchment mentioned an elf in Kirkwall named Merrill as the source of the tale. Halea made a note to ask Varric if he knew the storyteller.

They found nothing to add to their information about Solas himself, other than what he had told them: he created the Veil to seal away the Evanuris, elven mages who had gained unimaginable power and used it to rule over the Elvhen people cruelly. He was now leading a revolution to tear down the Veil, and bring back Elvhenan by restoring magic ‘as it once was.’ Nothing was going to stop him, except for them. Except for her. _If_ what he had told her was the full truth.

Dorian rubbed his temples. “For being a short stack of information, there certainly is more than enough here to cause a roaring headache.”

“But hardly any of it is _useful_ ,” Halea sighed. “What’s part of the legends only brings up more questions than answers.”

“Questions like what is this ‘blade’ Fen’Harel promised to all those gods,” Dorian said with a nod. “Do you think seeking out these Creators and Forgotten Ones, would help?”

Halea stared at him. “You mean, find a way to break them out of their prisons?” Dorian nodded. “Dorian, if the Veil is what’s _holding_ them in their prisons, the only way to break them out would be to _destroy_ the Veil, which is what we’re trying to _stop_.”

He shrugged. “All I am saying is that it could be worth looking into.”

“Well, at least the legends got one thing right,” she said sourly. “Solas knows how to trick people into believing him for his own gains, no matter who he hurts. Selfish ass.”

Dorian set the parchment with their notes on her bed and looked at her. “Halea, you said it yourself: he’s not a monster. He’s capable of truly caring about the people he wants to destroy.”

She reached out, running her fingers over the parchment he had just set down, not looking at him. “Can you _really_ call it ‘caring?’ To know that you’re going to destroy _everything_ that the person you love has, and _still_ keep going?”

Dorian placed his hand on hers, stilling the nervous movements of her fingers. “Isn’t it? Can you say _you_ don’t truly care for him when that’s exactly what you’re doing, too?”

She snatched her hand away, as if Dorian’s touch had turned into a hot iron and scorched her. She felt Dorian’s eyes on her, but refused to look at him. It was too hard to look truth in the face. “We should find some lunch,” she said quietly.

He stared at her for another moment before sighing, a touch too dramatically. “Denial is a disguise everyone tries on over and over again, Halea, but it suits no one. Try to take it off sooner rather than later.”

She let him leave before her, making an excuse about wanting to wash up before finding food. He left her to herself, and she was thankful that he hadn’t tried to get more out of her. She didn’t want to tell him that she had shed her denial in favor of the truth a few nights ago: It _was_ possible for a monster to love someone, deeply and truly, and still be a monster.

Because she was one, too.

Just like Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RE: underlined description of the glass sarcophagus - the way I described it is my own, but the placement, construction, and layout are the original authors’!


	8. Writer’s note! (To be deleted)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legitimately from me, BreakerBroken

I have not forgotten about this fic or the other one I’m working on (Equilibrium)! I’m attempting National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo, I’m sure many of you know) which is taking up the main focus of my creativity, energy, and time.

BUT! After November, I’ll turn my focus back to these fics! I have a few scenes already written out, and I hope to take advantage of any fic-focused creative bursts so that might mean updates?

Just in case, though, I wanted to let you know this fic is not forgotten, my focus is just being taken up by another project!

Thank you for reading, and for your patience! Hope to update soon if creativity allows!

~BreakerBroken


	9. Ambition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Move forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Solas~

The surface of the mirror rippled as Solas stepped through, the muted roads and strange trees fading beneath the metallic sheen of the eluvian. Briala had invoked his name as the password to open the ways between the eluvians, and for that he was grateful. But too many had known that speaking _‘_ _ Fen’Harel enansal’ _ would allow them to walk the ways. Too many who might have let the phrase slip. There was too much at stake to risk losing the ways. He changed it, using another portion of his magic and the Anchor to lock the eluvians under a new phrase.

“ _Sulevin ghilana hanin_ _._ ” The surface behind him stilled. He paid little attention to it as he walked down the gently sloping hill through tall grass. A gentle breeze rustled the grasses, mimicking the rushing sound of the waterfalls behind him. More eluvians dotted the mountainside, most next to somewhat-intact stone architecture, ruins of a place he remembered fondly. Ruins of a place that had now been forgotten by all except nature.

He walked amongst the ruins, enjoying the sun warming his skin, the breeze ruffling the wolf pelt slung over his shoulder, before coming to another eluvian. He passed briefly through and emerged on a precipice overlooking the sunny mountain meadow he had wandered through seconds before. Behind him, two enormous wolves of stone howled silently at the blue sky. This place had been beautiful, once. Peaceful. _Once_.

Now it was a place for the trading of information, the planning of subterfuge, betrayal, and war.

The eluvian rippled and flashed. Two elves stepped through. Solas frowned. He’d expected three. They bowed to him, and his frown deepened before he schooled it into something more distant.

“Aywin, Folan.” He gazed over the sunny meadow below. “Where is the one I sent you to retrieve?”

Aywin, slight and sharp, stepped forward and dropped to her knee. “Forgive us, Fen’Harel. We found the  Blue Wraith , but he would not come.”

Solas shook his head slightly. “Did you make clear to him what was at stake?”

Folan dropped to his knee behind Aywin. “We did. He still refused. Want us to retrieve ‘im by force, Fen’Harel?”

He had asked Solas the same question several times before they set out over a month ago, shortly after Solas had fled Skyhold. Folan’s tendency to choose more violent paths was troubling. Solas would have to watch him closely. “No. It means nothing if he does not choose to come willingly.” 

Folan grumbled loudly. “Never met an elf who gave less ‘an two fucks about other elves as much as ‘im.”

Aywin cleared her throat. “Apologies, Fen’Harel, for Folan’s _impudent_ comment. He tracks well, but excels at little else.”

Solas kept his face turned away from them, hiding his amused smile at her attempt to cover her companion’s rudeness. “Think nothing of it,” he said brusquely. “I can appreciate someone who speaks their mind, so long as it is within reason. As to being unable to persuade him, the failure to secure the Blue Wraith as an ally is a disappointment but, ultimately, of little consequence. The status of the items I sent you to retrieve is of vastly more importance to our cause. Have you been able to retrieve what I’ve asked for?”

“We were able to purchase Yavanalis, and have sent another agent to purchase Andruil’s Blessing,” Aywin said proudly, and loudly, to cover Folan’s further grumbles. “We know the Dark Moon is still with a Dalish clan in the Brecilian Forest, and Spellweaver was last known to be possessed by members of an Andrastrian fringe cult in the ruins of a temple in the Frostback Mountains. We are still trying to locate the Sorrows of Arlathan and the Tevinter rings.”

“Why’ve you sent us running around like servants purchasing trinkets? Uh, if you don’t mind my asking, Fen’Harel.” Folan added quickly, realizing too late that he had spoken out loud. Aywin sucked in a breath but otherwise remained silent. She was wise to do so.

Solas paced near the edge of the precipice, observing the ground beneath his feet. “To restore Elvhenan, and the Elvhen, I must gather power. Magical, ancient power, which you two have likely never seen. It is incredibly rare in this world. The Veil separates most of that power from the waking world, but it will take such immense power to unmake the Veil.” He paused, staring at the glowing light deep within his palm. “I no longer have physical access to the Fade. Otherwise, the task would be much easier. So, I must gather power from elsewhere.”

He heard the sound of leather shifting and grass rustling, glancing to see that Folan had sat on the ground, lounging to listen as if he were at a campfire. Aywin still knelt, her eyes downcast.

“What’s that got to do with magic rings?” Folan asked, unhidden irritation weaving through his voice.

Solas adopted a small, pleasant smile and walked towards his agents. “Tell me, Folan, how do objects become imbued with power?” Folan’s blank stare frustrated him. “How does a ‘magic’ ring become ‘magic?’”

He shrugged. “Someone does magic to it?” Solas saw a subtle wince flicker across Aywin’s face.

“A mage enchants an object, such as a ring, with magic power.” Solas explained slowly. “Either their own power, or power from another source outside of themselves, such as lyrium or energy from the Fade.”

Folan’s blank expression persisted.

“Imagine, if you will, someone holding an empty jar. The jar can remain empty, or the person holding it can fill it with water, correct? Or, if it’s more to their liking, ale, or milk. Perhaps they might store food in it. It is an empty object that can be filled with many different types of things, some even in combination.”

Folan nodded slowly. “Right, what about the ‘their own power’ part?”

Solas shook his head. “It is a metaphor, Folan. An example. Imagine the person choosing to fill the jar with their own blood, if that truly helps you understand.”

Folan’s eyes became sharp with interest, a snarl masquerading as a smile spreading over his face. “Ah, that blood magic stuff, right? Always thought it aughtn’t be such a fuss, myself. Bound to be loads of it when the Veil comes down, eh?” The color drained from Aywin’s face.

Solas sighed, suddenly very weary of this conversation. 

Of this world.

Of Folan.

“Do you look forward to it, Folan? To the unmaking of the Veil?”

Folan grinned. “Yeah, reckon I do. Little bit more chaos’ll be fun. Lots of _interestin'_ opportunities, eh?”

Solas’ eyes flashed with bright white lightning, smoke leaking from them. Folan became obscured by rippling waves of the same light. Then, the light fell away with a flash.

Folan had turned to stone, his disgusting expression and languid pose frozen in place for as long as the stone endured.

Solas lifted his marked palm, aiming at the statue’s vicious smile, and clenched his hand into a fist. The statue split and crumbled into dust.

Solas observed Aywin’s reaction. She knelt before him, fallen lower on her hands and knees, face pressed into the ground. Her body trembled, and her breath seemed to be inconsistent. Solas turned and walked back towards the view of the meadow. He allowed a few minutes to pass so she could recover herself, trying to listen to the rush of the waterfalls as he forced his guilt and shame back to the dark corner of his heart where they belonged.

“I am sorry you had to witness that, Aywin.” He angled himself towards her, but kept his face turned towards the meadow. From the corner of his eye he saw her jolt when he said her name. “You knew Folan longer than I. I hope you understand that his unashamed bloodlust has no place among the Elvhen.” The phrase sat sour with him, memories of the Evanuris clashing and fighting, sending armies of Elvhen against each other. Another voice, not of his own, whispered _‘hypocrite’_ viciously in his mind.

He heard Aywin breathing in quick gulps of air. “H-he always kept himself in check, sir.”

Solas heard the fear in her voice. He crouched down in front of her, still keeping a slight distance from her.

“Aywin.” She raised her head slightly, looking at him from beneath her lashes. “I have met the spirits of people like Folan during my uthenera. I walked beside them, asked for their stories. Many of them I found around ancient battlefields and military strongholds. But I also found those spirits in dark alleys, in attics and root cellars, in castles and hovels. Some of those spirits, the ones that took lives one-by-one of their own leisure, tried to ‘resist’ and ‘keep themselves in check.’ They always failed. The only difference between the spirits who satisfied their bloodlust in battle, and those that snatched away others’ lives, was where they died. Do you understand?”

She closed her eyes, nodding. “Yes, Fen’Harel.” Her voice still shook. “If it pleases you, I would like to seek out Pyria, to assist me as I continue seeking the items you have requested.”

Solas closed his eyes, keeping the sour feeling in his soul at bay. “Of course.” He stood looking out over the meadow long after Aywin had retreated through the eluvian. He knew his explanation hadn’t diminished the fear she’d felt. He hoped it would bring her comfort after that fear had passed.

Solas breathed in the scent of earth and stone, water and grass, sky and sun. He needed to leave this soothing scene, or he would be trapped within its temporary peace. He needed to continue on, find the vessels of magic that would, with any luck, give him enough power to unmake the Veil. He needed to stay ahead of the Inquisition and Halea.

His _vhenan_.

Her memory cast a shadow on the sunny day, motivating him to move forward once again.

“ _Sulevin ghilana hanin_ ,” he said to the eluvian, watching his reflection distort as it rippled to life.

‘Endurance guides to glory.’

He would endure, until he unmade the Veil and brought back the glory of Elvhenan.

Until he finally atoned for the suffering he placed the Elvhen in.

He stepped through the eluvian and started walking the ways, his feet guiding him towards the Brecilian Forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, of course, of COURSE inspiration would strike for BOTH fics after adding in writer's notes on each of them! Ugh, still, I need to take advantage of the creativity while I can!


	10. Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell me once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Halea~
> 
> ~Solas~

Of course he would be in a library.

She was in a forest, wild and dark.

He had a book in his hand, others floating nearby.

Lights flickered between the trees behind her. Fireflies. Torches. Wildfires.

He looked surprised.

" _Vhenan?_ "

He looked tired.

"Why have you sought me out?"

And suddenly,

She looked lost.

Desperately,

She looked furious.

She wanted to know

She looked as wild as the woods she stood in,

More than anything else in the world.

Embers glowing in her eyes.

"Why me?"

Why her?

He stared.

The Conclave.

"Why was it _me_?"

The Inquisition.

She held up her hand, the faint glow making her heart sink to the soles of her feet.

The Anchor and the weight of the world crushing her.

She clenched her glowing fist.

The tender moments where they sheltered each other, sanctuary in chaos.

"Who would I have been?"

"You would still have been my _vhenan_."

"We never would have met if it wasn't for _this_."

The glow in her palm called to his.

She clenched her fist again.

Then it burned.

"I never would have gotten the Anchor."

He never would have needed to find her.

"I never would have been Inquisitor."

She wouldn't have been the one he'd walked with through the Fade's Haven.

"I never would have been..." She clutched her hands to her stomach.

She wouldn't have been the one who would take his heart from his chest and keep it.

She wanted to tear herself apart and find the ruins

She bore the Anchor

Of who she might have been

She was Dalish,

Before the Conclave

Mortal,

Before the Anchor

Fleeting,

Before him.

And precious to him.

If anything of herself was left.

Was it her he loved? Or, as she was wondering,

Anything that wasn't intertwined with him.

Would he have loved _any_ elven woman who had been burdened with the Anchor?

"Who would I have been, Solas?"

"I..."

"Who would I have been if you hadn't done this to me?"

He didn't know.

"You chose this for me, Solas."

"No one was meant to bear that burden."

He had chosen to unleash the Anchor

"I didn't think about what would happen..."

Then chose to keep pushing his plan

"...If someone survived the ritual."

And he had guided her

He hadn't known what would happen

Gently

When Halea came to him and asked him of the Fade.

Through the unknown

He had wanted to help himself,

To what he always knew would be waiting for them.

And realized,

She had thought they were both blind in a dark wood.

He couldn't help himself without helping her.

But instead she had been blindfolded

So he led her down his path,

And trusted him

And she had still swept him up in herself.

When he'd said

How could he have refused her?

He couldn't see either.

"I am sorry."

"Who was I going to be?"

He felt his heart crumble like ash.

Her despair chased her echo.

"I..."

"Who was I going to be, before you made me _this_?"

He didn't know.

Her hand

His hand

Hurt

Burned

It burned

So painfully.

And her heart

Despair and regret

Already so broken

Fed on his guilt

Broke

And ate away his soul.

Even more

And still

Than she ever thought was possible.

His resolve remained.

" _Who would I have been?_ "

"Anyone."

She fell to her knees and screamed at the sky.

The forest behind her caught fire, bright and savage.

His library began to crumble.

He turned his back to her, unable to bear her grief and rage.

Darkness gathered around him,

He felt her burn away.

And swallowed him whole.

Her impossible question...

His vague answer...

_...anyone, anyone else..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was based on the fantastic song ["The Moon Will Sing" by The Crane Wives](https://youtu.be/pwhec-xnWfY). It was practically MADE for Solavellan! (It wasn't, but darn if it doesn't fit perfectly!)


	11. Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How deep it goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Halea~

Halea woke on her bedroll next to the cold campfire. Her eyes ached, sore from poor sleep. She had risen just before dawn, when the deep indigo of night was being chased away by lavender, then blush, then blue.

They were traveling back to Skyhold, to prepare for the long hunt they would be on for items of power. It was almost like a heist, really: stealing something precious from someone else who wanted it. Their thievery had already started bearing fruit. Josephine’s emissaries were returning from Crestwood with The Call of the Dark, purchased for the sake of ‘promoting commerce between the Inquisition and local merchants.’ Leliana had dispatched spies to sneak a scholar in and out of an Avvar tribe in the Hinterlands for a mythological axe. Cullen reluctantly sent Alistair, who reluctantly contacted an ally from the year of the Fifth Blight to meet him in Orzamar to see a noble about a ‘lost’ ring. With a letter reluctantly written by Varric, they hoped to ‘find’ the ring and purchase it. It seemed no one was eager to deal with the quarrelsome nobles of Orzamar.

The speaking stones had been extremely useful. Halea would make sure to find a secluded spot within sight but not sound of the others, out in the open so those with prying ears couldn’t hide close enough to her, and speaking only with Leliana. They would return to Skyhold, then travel to the Frostback Basin, to search for forgotten Tevinter ruins and a staff related to an Old God.

She lay on her bedroll, staring at the sky, at the trees, at the last bats and first birds that flitted through the air. Her dreams of him - her walks in the Fade where her feet led her against her will - were getting clearer. She wasn’t as adept at navigating the Fade as Solas was, but she was learning how to sense the other half of the Anchor that he’d ripped from her. Each night she had gotten closer and closer to him, but never seeing him, only sensing, until last night. Actually going to him had never been the goal. And yet it happened, in spite of her intentions to stay away.

A library. Large, as vast as a great chamber in the Deep Roads, with pieces sheared away and floating nearby. Real, but not. She knew she had gone somewhere she shouldn’t have been able to go. She knew she had only been able to go because of the Anchor. It may not have been strong enough to let her physically into the Fade, but whatever power it still had was able to take her to wherever that library had been.

_‘Who was I going to be, before you made me this?’_

She had screamed it, and it sounded too quiet to her.

_‘I am sorry.’_

His whisper had roared in her aching chest, so she sent it to the sky. The forest burned her to smoke and ash and despair.

“Anyone…” She whispered to herself, the sky above her growing lighter. “I could have been _anyone_ …”

She buried her tears again when she heard her companions stirring an hour later.

They would reach Skyhold today.

* * *

“Inquisitor, can we talk, if you have a minute?” Dagna’s voice was unusually timid.

They had arrived just after midday, and Halea had spent hours being debriefed and briefed, and many hours more briefing and debriefing others. Plans had been made, papers signed, small figurines moved across a large map, missions assigned. Halea would have one night in a bed that now felt too big for just her, then set out for the Frostback Basin with the dawn. She had been on her way to the room that felt too haunted to be alone in when Dagna had approached her.

Halea, as tired as she was, welcomed whatever distraction Dagna was bringing her.

“Of course, Dagna. What is it?”

“Well, um, there’s something I need to show you, in the Undercroft. Right away, I think. I’m sorry, you’re probably tired, you must be, and normally I wouldn’t insist, but it’s really, really important.”

Halea readily agreed and made her way to the Undercroft with Dagna, who remained suspiciously quiet.

The waterfall was as thunderous and powerful as ever. The silencing spell that Vivienne had woven in front of the Undercroft’s opening beneath the waterfall allowed them to speak and hear normally, the waterfall a soft, distant roar instead. Torches were lit in sconces around the walls, with some special reflecting devices set up at a table or two. Harritt was nowhere to be seen.

“It’s this way.” Dagna led Halea to the weapons refinery. She glanced at the similar station for armor, spotting a crown of woven flowers, with a thin thread of lyrium wound through it. Halea remembered finding it: someone jumping on a strange, small house in the Emerald Graves, then passing through an illusion of snow to a staircase that descended farther down than it should have. She couldn’t remember who told them about the flower crown. She remembered it was useful, but dangerous. Something about melons, and someone almost dying. She couldn’t remember who.

A staff rested on the workbench of the weapons refinery, sparking with electricity. The haft was split, dark Ironwood for the upper half, bone or ivory for the lower. The staff’s focus, where a mage would gather their power to send out concentrated magic, seemed to be a simple root, until Halea saw the bones. The root had grown through some creature’s remains, crushing the bones and holding them in an angular tangle.

Halea looked down at the staff. It was immensely powerful, she could tell. Powerful, just like her. She could use its power, and use it wisely. She’d be able to stop Solas from unmaking the Veil, she’d be able to ensure Corypheus’ defeat, she’d make life better for the elven people scattered across Thedas without resorting to hurting anyone who was innocent. And she would judge them, hear their pleas, the accusations, and sort the innocent from the guilty. She-

“Inquisitor?!” Dagna shook Halea’s arm, looking worried. “I was trying to get your attention, but you seemed...enthralled. Are you okay?”

Halea blinked away the self-important thoughts that had invaded her mind. “I’m sorry, Dagna. I don’t know what’s come over me…”

Dagna looked at the staff, then drew Halea back from it a few paces. “Because I’m a dwarf, I don’t feel magic like you do. I can tell this staff is powerful, but I didn’t realize what it might do to someone who _does_ feel magic.”

Halea reached out her hand, gently pushing away Dagna’s hand and brushing her fingertips over the Ironwood haft. Laughter, mocking and cruel, began to echo in her head. Fade energy coated every inch of the staff, tight and concentrated. She pulled her hand away, Dagna sighing in relief.

“Did you make this?” She asked the Arcanist.

Dagna nodded slowly. “I, um, I was asked to make it, and to keep it secret.” She held her breath.

Halea now understood Dagna’s timidness. “By Solas.”

“Yes.” Dagna’s shoulders slumped in relief and shame. “He’d found an ancient schematic, and he brought it to me. Although, maybe it wasn’t ‘ancient’ to him. He asked me if I could make it, as long as he could bring me the materials, and of course I couldn’t resist the chance to work with magic _and_ history all at once! It was odd that he wanted to keep it a secret from everyone. But I thought it might have been a present. For you.” She wrung her gloved hands. “I’m sorry.”

Halea placed a hand gently on Dagna’s shoulder. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Dagna. I know better than anyone else how easy it was to trust him.”

Dagna’s eyes grew wide and tearful. “Right, right. Yeah, it probably seems like something small, compared to what he did to you.”

Halea placed her other hand on Dagna’s other shoulder, turning to face her. “Dagna, it doesn’t matter how big or little it was, betrayal of any size _hurts_ . It _hurts_. We all trusted him. He hurt us all.”

“All except his own agents,” Dagna said with a ferocity that surprised Halea. “I can’t believe how many people promised to be loyal to the Inquisition, when really they served the Dread Wolf.”

Halea turned back to the staff. “Did he tell you why he wanted it?”

Dagna’s nose scrunched in frustration. “No. I should have pressed it, but I really thought it was going to be a surprise present for you.” She sighed and began wringing her hands again. “What should we do with the staff, Inquisitor?”

“ _You’re_ the Arcanist, Dagna. I think you're supposed to be telling _me_ what we should do.” Her smile was small but genuine.

But Dagna shook her head. “I could break it down if you want, but it’s more powerful all together. Leliana said you were looking for powerful stuff…” She looked at the staff. “I don’t know if I’d be able to make anything as powerful as this staff again.”

Halea stared at the staff. It had a power that tugged at her, that made her marked hand itch. She reached out again, picking the staff up, and tried to push magic through her broken Anchor towards the staff. The laughing came back, getting louder as she tried to push the magic through it. Like calls to like. Each half of the Anchor called to the other. Maybe the magic of the Anchor, created by Solas, would call to the staff he had Dagna make and calm it.

After a moment, the laughing faded away, as did her inflated feelings of self-importance and overconfidence.

Experimentally, she sent a simple spell through the staff. The root and bone focus shone with light far brighter than Halea had intended, like plucking the desert sun at high noon from the sky and bringing it into the Undercroft. She dismissed the spell and the light faded. When Halea had finally blinked away the spots in her vision, she saw a mixture of awe and worry on Dagna’s face.

Halea held the staff lightly. “Thank you, Dagna. I think it might be too much for me to handle just now, but I’ll keep it with me. It’s another item we can keep away from Solas, and he might come looking for it here.” Dagna’s expression changed to one of fear and anger. If Solas did come for the staff, he would have had a hell of a fight from the Arcanist. But, better to keep Dagna safe by taking the staff along her journeys than risk the Arcanist’s life.

“Harder to find it if it’s always moving, right?” Dagna nodded in agreement.

Halea thanked her and began making her way up to the Undercroft’s door before she turned back. “Dagna, does the staff have a name?”

Dagna took a breath before answering. “It’s called the Heart of Pride.”

Halea laughed, once, without emotion. “Of course it would be called that.”

She left the Undercroft and made her way towards the room she had invited him to so many nights, gripping his heart in her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who got to 50k in NaNoWriMo? :D I'll still be working on the NaNoWriMo piece (probably for a LOOOOONG time), but I should be able to come back to both current works here on AO3 too!


	12. Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Most friendship is feigning” - William Shakespeare, As You Like It 2.7.186

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Solas~

He took care to ward his mind before he went to sleep. He didn’t want Halea to find him again. He had felt her circling him, more a wandering pilgrim than predator on a scent, but seeing her in Vir Dirthara had been shocking, painful, and utterly careless. If she had known where he was, she might have caught him coming through an eluvian.

Or, figured out how to enter the ways, hunting him down.

Or, destroyed every eluvian she could find, trapping him in the ways forever.

He didn’t think she would do that to him.

Or perhaps that was wishful thinking.

He came to an eluvian that should have led into what was now the Brecilian Forest. The structure that had been there before Solas went into his sleep had been a traveler’s rest, a small stop that led to beautiful wilds. He assumed it was now nothing more than ruins. The eluvian, to his frustration, was dark. Someone had broken it from the other side. He placed his hand on the dark glass and closed his eyes.

He felt a lingering corruption, and slowly drew his hand away, anger growing quietly within him. Not only had the eluvian been broken - it had been warped, twisted, forced to connect to somewhere other than the ways. He walked on. He would have to consider how this had happened later.

He found another eluvian, in working order and uncorrupted. He knew this one led to a palace, one of Andruil’s many ‘hunting lodges’ throughout the forests of what was now called Thedas. If he recalled correctly, this particular palace was smaller, more intimate - a place where Andruil could spend time privately with her wife, Ghilan’nain, in equal power. Halla and hunt had been plentiful, then. 

Solas passed through the eluvian, thinking for a brief moment of razing the palace to the ground, and found himself in the presence of a group of humans.

They looked at him, conversations dying, leaving the meat they were roasting over open fires to come closer to him.

“Halt.” The clear voice came from an older woman, heavily muscled and scarred. She wove through the crowd towards him. Solas noticed the daggers on her belt and bow at her back. He forced himself into a relaxed stance, but kept sharp eyes and ears on every possible enemy around him.

There were many.

The others made way for the scarred woman to pass, keeping their eyes on Solas.

She stood in front of Solas, looking him up and down. Judging if he was an enemy or ally, most likely. Whatever she found as she measured him satisfied her. She nodded her head to him curtly, less a greeting and more a gesture of permission to remain.

It amused him that  _ they _ were giving  _ him _ permission to be in an Elvhen ruin.

“I am Shadowhunt,” the scarred woman said, her tone polite but not welcoming. “You’re dressed pretty fancy for a Dalish, even a Keeper.”

The others murmured some level of agreement. Clearly, they had dealings with the clans that wandered the Brecilian forest. Whether those dealings were friendly was not something he could tell.

Solas bowed slightly. “I am Solas. Forgive my intrusion, I was not expecting this place to be inhabited. I have never met the Dalish of the Brecilian Forest, but I am looking for them, if that counts for anything.”

Shadowhunt leaned closer to him, looking over him more closely.

“There’s something odd about you,” she said slowly. Solas remained outwardly relaxed, and prepared to unleash a storm of fire, just in case she decided ‘odd’ was synonymous with ‘hostile.’ “You have the same bearing as  our Lady .”

That was not what Solas had been expecting. “Your Lady?”

“ The Lady of the Forest !” Said someone in the crowd, the rest nodding in agreement.

“The Lady of the Forest...is she your leader?” Solas asked slowly.

Shadowhunt nodded, pausing one long moment before declaring, “I will take you to her.”

Solas was about to protest - it would be better for him to find the Dalish clan with the bow he sought - but Shadowhunt turned and walked deeper into the ruins. The others stared at Solas, their gazes growing suspicious the more he hesitated to follow.

“It would be best to follow her,” another of the humans said, motioning towards where Shadowhunt had gone.

“And should I refuse?”

A chorus of whispers sprung up in response.

“Probably best to not refuse,” he answered. “Besides, you’ve not nothing to fear from our Lady, not unless you mean the forest harm.”

Solas inwardly sighed and set off after Shadowhunt, the others closing in behind him and cutting off a physical retreat.

* * *

The humans led Solas all the way to the bottom of the ruins, into a chamber with thick roots grown through the walls, more roots woven together high above them, allowing a little sunlight into the deep space. Solas had never visited this particular palace of Andruil’s, and wondered if this wasn’t originally an open courtyard that, over millennia, had been reclaimed by the forest.

Or reclaimed in a much shorter amount of time by the spirit that stood before him.

She appeared in the general shape of a woman, though her deep green skin and the roots that wound around her arms, hips, and legs made it clear that it was a shape, not a possession. Her eyes were entirely black, and the roots that covered over her hands ended in sharp spikes, like claws. Solas was surprised that the humans hadn’t killed her as a demon on sight. Surprised, and impressed. Long, dark hair covered over her breasts. An intricate tattoo lay along her collarbone, winding around either side of her neck. It almost resembled a vallaslin, only arranged like a necklace before being carved into her skin. Like the forest, she was wild, timeless, steadfast. Like a spirit, she was elegant, ethereal, and thoroughly ‘other.’

He bowed deeply to her. “Lady of the Forest, it is an honor to meet you.”

Her laugh sounded like birdsong drifting on the breeze. “It is I who should be honored, I think. Or, perhaps frightened. It is not often that one meets an  ancient god. Let alone a most dangerous and hated one.”

The humans gathered behind Solas stepped quickly back from him. Shadowhunt jumped up from her kneeling position at the Lady’s side, drawing a dagger and standing protectively in front of her. 

“My Lady,” Shadowhunt said quietly, keeping her eyes on Solas. “I did not know he was dangerous. We will protect you, as you protected us. To the death.” She crouched lower, ready for Solas to attack. He heard the sounds of blades and bows being drawn behind him.

But the Lady laughed again. “Fear not, children. I do not believe that he intends to cause any harm to us.” She swayed as she stood, as branches bend in a light wind. “I have heard much of you over my many years, Fen’Harel.”

“What? He told us his name was Solas,” a human whispered worriedly behind him.

“My name is Solas, Lady of the Forest. Fen’Harel was a name meant to insult me, that I took on as a badge of honor. I am sorry for any confusion I may have caused.”

“How interesting,” she replied, walking slowly towards him, her root-bound feet making shuffling noises over the crumbling stone floor. “Most of the Dalish tales would have us believe that you would never apologize for causing confusion, or chaos, or destruction. Then again, when I was of the forest, I heard how each clans’ tales differed, and how they changed over time. The earlier tales were not kind to you, either, but...you are merely a mage, correct? Not a god.”

Solas nodded. “I wield magic, yes. Although I hesitate to say ‘mage.’ Its meaning has been twisted over the years.” He shook his head in frustration. “All of the ones that the Dalish consider ‘gods’ were nothing more than very powerful magic wielders. Only  _ they _ got it into their heads that they should rule far above the rest of their people.”

“And so have become gods in their eyes as the stories have been passed down,” the Lady said. There was a sad sympathy in her voice.

“If I may, Lady of the Forest, how did you come to be? You are clearly a spirit, but you retain form in the waking world.”  _ Perhaps she is like Cole, _ he wondered.

She stood and swayed again, a serene and savage smile on her face. “I was torn from the forest. From the trees. From the earth. From the beasts and the birds and the breeze. I was ripped from the forest and bound to a wolf by an angry man who sought revenge and used me as his weapon. He called me Witherfang, and sent me after the humans who had harmed his family and clan. Through me he cursed them to become mindless beasts. But once he had no more use of me, I took this form, unable to unbind myself. I cared for those he cursed instead, helped them soothe the savage nature that overtook them.”

Solas looked at the humans who stood in the chamber with them. “And what of the curse?”

The Lady of the Forest looked up at the ceiling of roots and the beams of sunlight. “The elven Warden came, sent by the Keeper of the Dalish clan of this forest. The Keeper was the same one who had bound me and cursed those humans. His clan, in turn, was falling sick to the same curse, but out of pride he would not undo it. He chose to continue his petty revenge over the survival of his clan.”

“And yet, that clan lives?”

She gestured towards Solas. “The Warden stood just where you are, and asked  _ me _ to end the curse on  _ Zathrian’s _ clan. After tearing apart the home we had claimed here, killing many of my children. The poor thing had been misled by Zathrian.” She stared for a long moment at Solas, then continued. “And yet, he convinced me to negotiate with the man who bound me, to see if we could not end this peacefully. Zathrian resisted at first, then chose to end the curse. Doing so ended his life.” Darkness crept into her face. “I still wonder, even now, if he only did so to retain the choice of how to die. It was only when he was faced with death, after all, that he then chose to free my children and his clan from his curse.”

Solas proceeded carefully. “If I may ask, Lady of the Forest, would not the death of the man who bound you have resulted in your release?”

“It did,” she said wistfully, her sigh the sound of rustling leaves. “I was returned to the forest. The wolf I was bound to was free. The humans, no longer cursed, returned to their homes.”

“But not all of us were welcomed back,” Shadowhunt said quietly. “The curse was gone, but not the stink of it. Our families, our villages, turned us out all over again.”

“And so you returned to these ruins,” Solas said, nodding with understanding. “Your home.”

“And I heard the call of my children, lost once again.” The Lady looked at the humans around her, and Solas could see love in her eyes. “Witherfang did as well, and we chose to bind together once more.”

“You have protected them, and sheltered them,” Solas said, earning a nod from Shadowhunt and from the Lady. “Will you remain in these ruins forever?”

The humans shifted nervously, and the Lady smiled sadly. “I do not know, yet. These children have learned ways to live here in the forest, ways they lost in their villages, ways the Dalish would not teach them. They fare well enough on their own.” The humans shifted quickly, nervous murmurs rising, and the Lady smiled. “But they do not desire my departure. One day, I may. It will feel too soon to them, but a hatchling does not feel ready to fly when they are pushed from the nest, until they are forced to spread their wings.”

Solas nodded, turning slowly to observe the great room they stood in. He could feel the immense power the Lady of the Forest had spent in warding and protecting these ruins. He could sense old wards that had been broken, new ones that had been placed, and ambient magic she had imbued the ruins with.

He turned to the Lady. “Lady of the Forest, it has been a true pleasure to meet a spirit such as yourself, one not of the Fade, but of the very earth itself. Would that I had encountered more spirits, though willingly taking form, rather than your first incarnation. Would you permit me the honor of showing me the way to the Dalish clan? I believe we have much we could talk about...but it may be an uncomfortable conversation for mortal ears.” He bowed, with his hand outstretched.

Shadowhunt made a sound as if to speak, but Solas felt the clawed roots of the Lady’s hand in his before she was able to utter a word. “I will allow it. It will feel good to talk to another long-lived being, I think.”

He quickly pressed his lips to her hand, then dropped it and rose, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

Shadowhunt stepped forward as the Lady took his arm. “My Lady, are you sure this is wise? You said he is an elven god, and,” her eyes darted to Solas in suspicion, “that even if he is not, he is still a very powerful mage that’s in a lot of wicked stories.”

The Lady of the Forest looked at Shadowhunt sadly. “And do you not feel a kinship with that, Shadowhunt? To be one thing, called another, and persecuted because of what others have said?”

Shadowhunt closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, lowering her head in shame. “I...did not think of it like that. I am sorry, my Lady, Solas.” She bowed and stepped aside.

The Lady ran a few of her roots over the woman’s hair gently, a mother soothing a child. “I am touched by your concern, Shadowhunt. Wait for my return.” She and Solas walked towards a stone archway, leading to stairs that ascended up to the forest floor.

* * *

The Lady led Solas through the Brecilian forest, across streams, by ponds, through thick woods. The Lady showed him secret parts of the forest, pieces of ruins long-hidden, a curious hermit who, somehow, lived in a hollowed-out stump much smaller than himself. They walked through groves of sylvans, the Lady keeping them asleep, talking with Solas about the spirits trapped within the living bark, their rage and confusion. They spoke with a sylvan with orange leaves, that called itself the Grand Oak. It spoke fondly of how the Warden had returned an acorn to it when he came through the forest.

They neared the ruins where Solas had originally intended to exit into, and he asked if they could explore it to see what happened to the eluvian. She graciously agreed, curious herself. They passed through the ruins, giant spiders scurrying away from them rather than attacking - the benefit of walking with the Lady - and gazed at twisted sculptures that were far different from the ruins around them. In corners, on webbed cocoons, on decaying bones, Solas saw the corruption - the Blight - that must have twisted the eluvian.

They finally found the broken Eluvian, once placed in stone sculpture, a doorway welcoming travelers to the ways. Now, Solas could see through the empty space, glass shattered all around the eluvian’s platform.

He picked up a shard of broken glass and closed his eyes, concentrating on any lingering energy. There, deep within the glass, he could feel it. The Blight. He turned the glass over and saw a large scratch, one not caused by breakage or accident.

“This disturbs you,” the Lady observed. “This place feels dark, and unnaturally rotten.”

Solas nodded, then closed his eyes, holding his hand over the shards of glass. His hand glowed, and as he swept it over the shards of glass they gathered together, each rearranging itself into its proper place, until the eluvian was almost completely whole again, resting in its sculpture. The final piece he kept in his hand. From the front of the eluvian, now nothing more than a piece of glass and metal unless it was awakened, it seemed a regular mirror. Solas walked to the back of the eluvian, and stopped. He gripped the glass in his hand tightly, cutting into his palm and fingers, as his rage grew within him.

Someone had desecrated the eluvian with an enchantment, placed by etching a rune with blood and lyrium into the eluvian itself. He had not seen a rune such as this before, but he had no doubt that it had led to the corruption of the eluvian.

He dropped the shard of glass he held in his hand, and pressed his bloody palm to the eluvian. He had to use his blood to undo the blood magic. He shattered the eluvian into a fine dust, making sure it could never be put together again.

The Lady stood next to him. She gently took his hand and waved her root-claws over it, casting healing on his wounds.

“The dark and rot still linger,” she said quietly, “but it seems better now. That distressed you.”

Solas nodded, flexing his hand. “It seems someone figured out how to spread the Blight through enchanted runes.” The Lady’s roots curled and uncurled in fear. “This rune was put here, possibly just before the Fifth Blight. I do not sense any others like it nearby. I will watch for them in my travels, and destroy them.”

“That is a noble cause,” the Lady said, swaying gently. “I sense a great weight resting on you, Solas. But I sense a great desire to bear that weight. To right it.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes. And I will do what I must to set things right.”

“What is it that you strive to right?” The Lady’s voice was gentle and curious.

“To unmake the Veil, to bring the Fade and the waking world back into one.”

Her dark eyes widened, a deep shade of green coloring her cheeks. “That would be... _ wonderous _ ...to freely walk in magic again...I would give much for that.”

“Would you give your life?” He asked, attempting a casual tone.

She stiffened, then leapt back.

Her roots sharpened and lengthened, the claws becoming wicked and deadly.

She had finally felt his intention, but she didn’t yet know it was too late.

He turned slowly to her, his guilt writhing against the steel of his resolve.

She snarled, wild and savage and furious. “So you are indeed a  _ deceiver _ .”

He raised his marked palm, the glow brightening slightly.

She lurched forward, bones and skin shifting into that of a great silver wolf.

He hesitated only a moment before his eyes shone bright with lightning and poured smoke into the air.

The Lady of the Forest, Witherfang, glared at his hand, teeth bared. It readied to strike, then stopped. Whimpered, ears flattened. Then the body of an old wolf thudded on the stone floor, stiff and empty.

The Spirit of the Forest’s essence entered into the mark on his palm and flowed into him. He tried not to enjoy the feeling of strength that came after, or the warmth of power flooding his body.

He stared down at the dead wolf.

Solas waved his hands, making the proper motions, and the wolf’s corpse erupted in bright green Veilfire.

He walked away from the Veilfire pyre, satisfied that at least no other spirits would ever inhabit the wolf. It had spent long enough being possessed.

He ignored the nausea he felt at his own actions, and left the small ruins, wandering towards the Western side of the Brecilian forest.

He needed to see a crafter named Varathorn about a bow.


	13. Inhale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Halea~

Halea sat in her still too-big room at her cluttered desk, the Heart of Pride resting on top of papers and maps and letters.

The Anchor had silenced its mocking laughs and powerful temptation. The magic in the staff hummed, a matching vibration gently shaking Halea's hand.

She had been debating with herself whether or not just keeping the items _out_ of Solas' hands would be enough to stop him from gaining power. She knew the debate was fruitless - there were so many magical items in the world that even if she found and kept the most powerful ones away from him, he could find the thousands of weaker ones and gather just as much power.

If she was going to stop Solas from burning the world, she needed to take the power from these objects.

If she was going to save Solas from his own prideful promises, his own misguided sense of duty, she needed to play his game better than he did.

She took the Heart of Pride in her hands and stood, waving it around experimentally. It was truly a powerful staff, like Dagna had said. Even the small, harmless spells she cast were magnified to a breathtaking level of power and force. A gentle breeze became a gale that lifted papers in a whirlwind. The smallest chill frosted the walls of her room with ice, the heat to melt it almost too intense for her to stand casting if she hadn't done it in half-second long bursts.

Dagna had tried to explain before how she imbued the weapons she made with magic. Runes and lyrium, she had said. Halea knew there was more to it, but Dagna had a difficult time explaining it in a way Halea could understand.

All Halea knew was that Dagna had made a stave according to instructions from Solas, and the combination of materials, runes, and lyrium had somehow made it more powerful than any other weapon Dagna had ever created.

How could Halea get that power _out_ of the stave and _into_ her?

She looked at the stave's focus, the skull that had been both broken and held together by roots that had slowly grown through it over thousands of years. She couldn't tell what creature the skull had belonged to, too fractured apart to get a good sense of what animal it might have come from. She felt the hum of the magic reverberating in the Anchor.

Might as well give it a try.

She placed her hand over the stave's focus. The vibrations intensified, starting to sting from their power and speed. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the humming.

_Come to me_ , she thought, pushing her will through the Anchor, calling to the magic. _Come_.

The stinging turned to burning, but Halea kept her hand on the stave. She thought of the stave, of its name - The Heart of Pride - and anger drowned out the pain in her hand. Thoughts rushed around her head, of when she had been cursed with the Anchor, of Solas teaching her how to use it, of him breaking it apart and fleeing with the other half.

Of the way she thought she could could, sometimes, in quiet moments, alone, at night, feel him at the other end of the Anchor, as if his hand were brushing against hers.

_Come to me, damn you!_ Her angry thought caused the magic to scorch her hand. Was it the Anchor doing the damage, or the stave?

Who had done more damage to her: Solas, for betraying her?

Or herself, for loving him still?

_Come back to me._ The thought was a hopeless plea.

The magic rushed into her. It sent stinging pain like lightning through her arm, into her veins, into the places where the Anchor had rooted its magic in her. She wanted to drop the stave, to pull her hand away from the magic, but she couldn't move. Another memory, strangely disconnected, of someone trapped behind a barrier, one of Solas' barriers, drowning, drowning in something dark and strange, and her hand burning as the Anchor connected to the barrier and drained magic from her, of Solas placing his hand on her arm, ready to cut it off of her.

To save her.

Who was in that barrier, she couldn't remember.

The lightning in her arm dimmed to a dull throb as the last of the stave's magic was pulled into the Anchor. She set the powerless stave down and looked at the sparking green light in her palm.

The Anchor felt whole again, yet not. It felt as powerful as it had been before it was broken, but she could feel it still gently calling after its other half. The plea had changed, almost as if to say that it was better now, more worthy, so please, please come back, please come back and make me whole again.

Maybe that wasn't the Anchor. She pushed the thought away.

She could extract magic from the artifacts they found, thanks to the Anchor. She'd be able to amass power, hopefully _enough_ power, and stop Solas.

She picked up the stave again and left her room. She'd return the materials to Dagna, and prepare to leave for the Frostback Basin. They had no time to waste. If they didn't move fast, Solas would claim and absorb magic from items that he snatched out of their reach before they could snatch them out of his.

If each item gave as much power as the Heart of Pride had, she couldn't risk Solas gaining more than her.

If he did, then their world was as good as ash.

* * *

They had to find a bear.

Before the Avvar would help the Inquisition find the Scepter of Razikale, the Inquisition had to help the Avvar find their missing hold-beast.

A bear. Named Storvacker.

Thane Svarah Sun-Hair suspected that members of the Jaws of Hakkon had taken Storvacker to hobble the Avvar of the Stone-Bear Hold. She would not assist the Inquisition with finding the Scepter until Storvacker was free to roam their lands once more.

Finding the Scepter meant fighting the Hakkonites. And she couldn't fight the Hakkonites unless she knew they couldn't harm Storvacker.

Those who lived in this part of the Frostback Basin were made of tougher stuff than Halea expected. As they searched, they encountered hostile beasts and people alike, and barely managed to scrape through each fight. At least Iron Bull was enjoying himself.

"Finally, _a challenge!_ " He shouted each time, blood vessels in his eyes darkening to deep red as his bloodlust bolstered his muscles and deadened his sense of pain.

Halea'd had to chug vial after vial of lyrium to keep fighting. They ran out of healing potions and first aid supplies quickly, and she was trying to hold out on using her last vial.

She'd been surprised, however, that she hadn't needed the lyrium boost as often as she would have, had she not absorbed the magic from the Heart of Pride. She could fight longer, cast stronger spells, and push through exhaustion more easily.

Cole had noticed the change in her power as soon as they had set out to the Frostback Basin. He would mumble about power causing more wounds than healing, about eating hearts and feeling empty. Halea wished she had been able to bring Varric, but he'd had to journey to Orzamar (reluctantly, of course) after all. The nobles were being difficult, and not even Alistair and his dwarven companion's statuses as Grey Wardens could convince them to part with the 'lost' ring. Varric's titles, hopefully, would help push the nobles into giving up the ring. For golden compensation, of course.

Blackwall was able to comfort Cole to a degree, although Halea noticed that he wasn't quite as resilient in long periods of battle as she thought Grey Wardens were. Or maybe that was her inflated sense of power that she tried to keep in check, now that the Anchor was stronger.

They found the bear, finally, in a cave-turned-cage. Another grueling battle, and Storvacker was free to roam once again.

They were preparing to go back to Stone-Bear Hold when Cole walked out of another of the cave's cells, holding a stave. At one end, a wickedly sharp forked blade. At the other, an angular dragon's head, mouth open in a fierce roar. Lightning poured from the dragon's mouth and crackled along the stave.

"I found this," Cole said, holding it out to Halea. "It was singing."

Their journey back to Stone-Bear Hold was much easier, thanks to the Scepter of Razikale.

* * *

On their way back to Skyhold, Leliana's spies caught up with them and delivered Tyddra's Axe - actually another stave - to them.

Halea siphoned the power from the Scepter and the Axe after they returned to Skyhold. The magic from the Scepter felt oily and slick. The magic from the Axe was savage and feral. Both quickly changed to match the Anchor, but the feeling of more power running through the Anchor was a bittersweet thing.

She could feel the Anchor's other half, the one possessed by Solas, growing in strength as well. She knew he was becoming more powerful because the call of his Anchor to hers was getting louder and louder. She could push it away by day, but at night the song hummed loudly, the Anchor stinging and itching to be reunited with its other half.

Halea had taken to using a sleeping draught. The stronger her Anchor became, the stronger the sleeping draught had to be. At least the draught prevented her from wandering far in the Fade. She knew, had she been able to fall asleep without it, she would have met Solas in her dreams, whether she willed it or not.

He had stayed away from her dreams as well. Perhaps that meant he had to take a draught, too. Or, his many experiences in the Fade allowed him to maintain better control over his walking than she ever could.

Halea took the magic from the Call of the Dark, and, eventually, from the ring that Varric and Alistair finally procured from Orzamar. The ring, called Ageless, broke into dust in her hand after its magic was gone. Halea gave the powerless staves to Dagna, all the more materials for her to work with.

She felt strong, with all this magic flowing through her body, through the Anchor. She searched her body and her face in the mirror every morning and evening. She examined her hand often. She discreetly asked Josephine and Vivienne if they noticed anything about her.

Nothing.

Other than feeling powerful, other than the Anchor shining a bit brighter with the more magic she absorbed, she was unchanged. She didn't know if that was good or bad. Surely this much magic would have some effect on a body? She thought of the tortured souls of mages she had seen when she walked physically in the Fade at Adamant, their bodies bursting into demons befitting their most powerful emotions.

She was sure she should have seen her skin turn pale and whithered and icy. That at any moment, her body would burst with lava and fire.

Nothing.

She kept looking.

The day she finally faced Solas, she wanted to be anyone but the person he had left unconscious on the floor of Skyhold's dungeon.

She had to be someone he hadn't made her to be.

She kept looking for who she was now.


	14. Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Halea~

The draught was to her lips when she felt eyes on her back. She carefully capped the draught's vial with her finger, then tipped her head back as she normally would to down it.

She set the vial on the table in front of her slowly. The hairs on the back of her neck tingled with the intruder's stare.

Halea spun and hurled a flash of lightning from her outstretched palm.

It passed through them and struck the wall. Halea could see the scorch mark through the glowing blue light of their transparent body. They solidified again, the scorch mark and the blue glow disappearing.

"Of course you're a mage," the intruder sneered. "Lucky. Me."

The intruder stepped towards her, avoiding the moonlight that fell through the windows facing the mountains.

Curling lines glowed faintly in broken sections. At the top of two short lines was the almost visible downward curve of a frown. Three small dots hovering in the air, flicking suddenly to the side as if disgusted.

She heard the sound of metal.

Halea hurled fire at the unlit logs in the hearth of her room, and light burst forth from the fireplace.

His pointed ears were easy to see, thanks to his short white hair. His olive skin took on the warmth of the fire. His light eyes were hard and wary. Hinged metal claws covered his fingers, but his feet where almost bare. Halea saw lines, thick and glowing, etched into his skin.

Halea's own wariness gave way to curiosity. "How'd you do that?" She saw the hilt of the longsword strapped to his back. He wasn't likely to be a mage, so he couldn't have stepped into the Fade.

"The marks," he said curtly.

"The...tattoos? On your skin?"

He grumbled. "It seems to happen when it must." He lifted his arm to glare at the exposed skin of his inner forearm, the curling lines flowing like veins. Halea saw that the lines twined up his biceps, exposed except for the narrow piece of leather that connected his pauldrons to his gauntlets. "And I rely on it far too much." He swiftly lowered his arm and looked away, choosing to stare at the fire. "Damned magic."

He was content to stare sullenly at the flames for a long while. _Maybe he's grumpy because he's cold._ _His arms must be freezing_ , she thought absently, but she doubted it. He seemed like the sullen, brooding type no matter the weather.

"Who are you?"

He sighed heavily. "'The Blue Wraith' to you, _mage_." He turned a glare on her. "Or should I call you ' _Inquisitor_?'"

"'Halea' would probably be best." She leaned against the table behind her. The tattooed elf seemed content to keep his distance.

"Fine." He held up a hand, cutting off her next question. "I was approached by agents of Fen'Harel."

"Looking to recruit you?"

His mouth twitched in disgust. "Yes. I know of his vile goal to infect this world with raw magic." He glanced at her. "I hear the Inquisition is no friend to Fen'Harel."

She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "The Inquisition is dedicated to stopping him, yes."

He looked up at her, enraged. "And you, _Inquisitor_? Are you still a _friend_ to your Dread Wolf lover?"

She whipped the vial of sleeping draught at him. It hit him squarely on the three dots on his forehead.

He blinked, then rubbed at his forehead and angrily kicked the vial into the fire. "I'll take that as a 'yes,' then."

" _No_ ," Halea snapped. She crossed her arms and looked away from the elf. "But I'm...I'd be a fool to pretend I...I didn't still -"

" _Love_ him." He snarled and shook his head. "A fool, indeed."

"What do you want?" He brooded in silence for a long minute. "Look, you wouldn't have snuck into my room and risked getting lightning to the face without wanting something from me. What. Do you. _Want_."

He continued to brood.

She cleared her throat. "What does _the Blue Wraith_ want from _the Inquisition_?"

"An alliance." He drew out the words with a pained look on his face. He spun and strode quickly over to her, glaring down into her face. "Make no mistake, _mage_. I have no desire to help _you_. But I'll be _damned_ if I let that fucking _wolf_ spread foul magic through this world."

She stared into his face, his flat nose inches from hers. "How exactly do you propose to help the Inquisition?"

He stalked away from her just as quickly. "I assume you're looking for items of powerful magic, like the wolf is."

"That's right."

He kept his back to her. The hilt of the sword on his back shimmered with lyrium. It was easily as long as he was tall, and would have been tough to wield even for someone as strong as Iron Bull. How was this wiry elf, barely taller than herself, wearing it on his back so easily?

And why would a man who obviously _hated_ magic wield a magic weapon?

"I'm searching for one such item. I'm close to finding it, I believe."

"What's the item?"

He hesitated, then his shoulders barely, _just barely_ , slumped. "Something from my past."

Halea waited for him to go on.

"I was a slave in Tevinter. To a Magister. Danarius. He liked to experiment on his possessions." He held his arm up, the lines visible on his inner forearm. They wound up his triceps and curled around his neck. "You called these 'tattoos'...A tattoo would have been far less painful." 

He turned to stare at the fire again, bracing a hand on the mantle. "I remember little of my life before the marks. I've gotten a few memories back, over the years. The ones that are strongest are the ones just before Danarius experimented on me."

The metal claws around his fingers dug into the wooden mantle, gouging it. "Danarius only wanted the strongest of his slaves for his experiment. He said he would free the family of the slave who survived. I was a child, nothing more than a child, and I killed a courtyard full of fellow slaves with my bare hands."

" _Fenedhis lasa_..."

"He led me to a golden sarcophagus and told me he'd free my family if I stepped inside of it. I did." He pulled his metal claws out of the mantle, ripping splinters away.

He drew the sword off of his back. Free of its sheath, Halea could see how the lyrium rippled across the entire sword in shimmering waves. It shone deep within the metal itself. "This sword pinned it closed. The sarcophogaus' magic branded lyrium into this sword, and into my skin. I remember...pain. Searing pain. It was the only memory I had when I was finally allowed to emerge."

He sheathed the sword. "I don't even have the satisfaction of remembering how I escaped that vile man. I found myself in Kirkwall, with this sword, and these marks."

He remained silent. Waiting for her to say something. Expecting her to say something.

"Is the bastard dead?"

The Blue Wraith turned and looked at her, ever-so-slightly surprised. "Yes."

She nodded. "Messy?"

"My hand phased through his throat and I crushed his spine before ripping his jugular out with my claws."

"So, messy."

"Yes."

"Good for you. Although..."

"What?"

Halea shrugged. "If you've already had the satisfaction of revenge on that bastard and you're _still_ sulking, it means your broody by birth."

The Blue Wraith chuckled. "You sound like a dwarf I know." He tugged at the metal clawed gloves, picking out the splinters and flicking them into the fire.

Halea took it as a compliment and tipped her head. "Is it safe to assume you're tracking down that sarcophagus?"

The Blue Wraith nodded. "I've a lead in Carastres. If I find the sarcophagus, I intend to destroy it."

"What?! You said-"

" _If_ ," he continued over her, "I cannot destroy it, then I will deliver it to the Inquisition. On the condition that I see the sarcophagus rendered inert with my own eyes."

Halea paused, then nodded. "Deal. I'll even let you smash it after the magic's been extracted. Should be a lot easier to crush if it's just a hunk of metal."

The Blue Wraith smirked. "Deal."

Halea held out her hand, but instead he turned and headed for the balcony door. "Where are you going?"

The Blue Wraith opened the doors, the cold mountain air clashing against the heat from the fireplace. "I'm going to the Imperium," he called over his shoulder.

"But-!"

Halea watched the Blue Wraith scale over the balcony and drop from sight. She ran out on the balcony, looking down, barrier spell ready to fling out to protect him from the worst of the hundreds-of-feet drop that he was surely falling down.

Instead, she saw him clinging to the side of Skyhold with the metal claws of his glove dug deep into the stone, already making his way down.

" _Don't worry about me, mage. I can handle myself_ ," he called up to her over the mountain wind.

" _You could have just used the stairs!_ " She knew by the way he rolled his eyes that he'd heard her. " _And it's 'Halea!'"_

He continued climbing down without a second glance. She thought she heard him mutter something, but couldn't make out what it was over the mountain wind.

She shook her head and went inside, shutting the balcony doors behind her.

This was going to be an interesting alliance.


	15. Exhale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Solas~

Varathorn had passed years ago, but his apprentice - now the clan's master craftsman - was more than happy to sell the Dark Moon to a fellow Dalish elf. Solas hadn't bothered to correct him. He'd been too disappointed by the discovery that the Dark Moon was a well-crafted, but completely nonmagical, bow.

He still paid good gold for it. Might as well bring what little prosperity could still be had to the clan. The world would change soon enough.

He'd had to travel far to find the next eluvian. He had no desire to face the Lady of the Forest's children again. Especially not when he'd most likely have to explain that their Lady was no more, and, knowing humans as he did, face their wrath. Even if he could frame it as the Lady finally deciding to 'force her hatchlings to fly,' they would be angry that she hadn't returned to say goodbye. She would have at least done that much for her children.

The last few echoes of the Lady's spirit within the Anchor told him as much. He shook his hand absently, willing the echoes and the guilt away.

His first stop was back at the meadow of eluvians. Within moments of his arrival, Aywin and Pyria arrived in the meadow. He took care to meet in the field of flowers below the precipice where Folan had been turned to stone, then dust. A good thing, too, for Aywin still had some fear in her eyes. He'd most likely need to tread lightly around her fear until it fully departed.

Solas normally wouldn't spend so much effort on any particular agent's feelings, but Aywin was one of his most loyal, and most useful. Turning her to stone would be a very sad waste of talent, indeed.

Pyria held out the Sorrows of Arlathan to him. He waved the longbow away, and handed the Dark Moon to Aywin. They could keep the exquisite bows - they were useless to him.

Yavanalis, however, proved to be worth the wait. The stave was freezing cold to the touch, and on contact brought the taste of blood to his mouth. The stave had been made and used by a Dalish Keeper to exact revenge on Orlesian humans. The Keeper had become known as the Pale Demon, and was eventually slaughtered, along with their clan. A tragedy, to be sure, but more blood added more power to magic in this divided world. And the power in Yavanalis was enough to make up for the lack of it in the Dark Moon and Sorrows of Arlathan.

Aywin was also able to tell him the location of an item he particularly wanted, thanks to inquiries from agents led by Orrian. With a quick nod of his head, he accepted the information and dismissed Aywin and Pyria. They were more eager to leave his presence than he liked. Again, he pushed the guilt into the dark corners of his heart.

Alone in the meadow of eluvians, he grasped the bloodied crystal focus of the stave and connected the Anchor to its magic. As he had done with the Lady of the Forest, he drew the magic into himself through his palm, the icy, vengeful flow making his arm numb. Once that was done, he spent a few moments in the sun, partially to drive away the ice, partially for a rare moment of peace.

Sunlight, he'd found, allowed him to think of Halea without as much pain as thinking of her at night brought. At night, he heard the call of her half of the Anchor more loudly. At night, he felt not only his own grief and anger and longing, but also hers. At night, he felt how powerful her magic had grown, and worried he wouldn't be able to gather enough to unmake the Veil before she came for him. At night, he couldn't deny the pride he felt knowing she'd grown so strong, so quickly.

At night, it was harder to deny that to be stopped from completing his mission would be a relief.

But those were thoughts in the dark, when he was left alone with his own conscience and the Anchor. In the light of the sun, he could long for her briefly and without guilt. He could think of her and not feel the devastation that came for him in the dark. He could imagine her smile, and it would bring him happiness, fleeting, instead of lingering pain.

Solas found himself daydreaming, of all things, that he was talking to her.

"I am not eager to go to the Black Emporium," he said aloud. He was alone, why not indulge the daydream?

_'Why is that?'_ Halea would have asked.

"From what my agents tell me, the proprietor is an overly strange being. At least three hundred years old, they've said."

_'Aren't you a lot older than that? He's practically a baby compared to you! You're not scared of a little bitty baby, are you?'_ She would have teased.

"You aren't one to talk. You're barely a twinkle, if that." He shook his head with a smile. It was a silly thing to say.

She would have laughed and pushed his shoulder playfully. He would have caught her hand and drawn her in, an arm going to her waist. She would have leaned close to him, her playfulness changing meaning. _'Should we delay setting out? Just so you can gather your courage, of course.'_

He would have leaned forward, barely a breath away from her lips. "Only if you stayed to help me, _vhenan_."

He startled from his daydream, cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment despite being alone. He was wasting his time with this playacting. He rubbed his stinging palm over his heart and headed for an eluvian.

* * *

Forcing his way through the eluvian that led to the Black Emporium was far more difficult than he'd expected. The eluvian was warded with a strange sort of magic from the other side, and the power that kept it open seemed to wane one moment, then return the next.

"Careful, you dolt!" An angry, withered voice echoed from the dark chamber beyond the eluvian's surface. "That mirror is irreplacable! Do not disrupt its magic - unless you intend to pay for its re-enchantment!" The anger changed to bemused laughter.

Solas looked back at the eluvian he'd stepped through, but stopped when he caught his reflection in the much larger mirror to the side. Its surface rippled, much like an eluvian's, but with each ripple something strange happened to his reflection: Each ripple changed the face he saw in front of him. He stared, watching the ripples wash over his mirrored face. One instant, he'd see a sliver of his younger self, ropes of braided hair hanging over his shouders. The next, he looked the same as he did now, except that his skin was the color of milk in moonlight. Another ripple, and his nose was changed. Eye color. The sharpness of his chin. Some of the changes were extreme, others so subtle he could hardly tell except to know that _something_ was different.

He reached a cautious hand out, fingers skimming the mirror's strange surface. He felt infinity on the other side of the mirror. Infinite possibilities, infinite worlds, infinite truths and realities, more than he had ever imagined possible.

He lifted his fingers from the mirror. The proprietor laughed once again. "Not going to take the Mirror of Transformation up on its offer, eh? Not even to chase a few of those wrinkles away?" The voice echoed a languished sigh. "What I wouldn't give to do the same. Sadly, the mirror does not work on me. Damn that Antivan witch!"

Solas looked down and saw a miniature Great Bear, no bigger than a fennec, sniffing at his ankle. It reached forward with its teeth to give an experimental nip, but saw Solas staring at it and backed away, grunting worriedly.

The proprietor hummed. "You must be the wolf. Nothing less would be able to drive Chauncey away from a nip with a mere glance."

Solas finally turned away from the strange mirror and towards the withered mass of skin and bones propped up in a chair surrounded by paper lanterns. The figure's several arms and legs appeared to be frozen in a variety of activities: contemplating, reading, despairing.

"What are you called, wolf?" The proprietor's mummified mouth didn't move, but his voice echoed clearly.

"Solas."

The proprietor chuckled. "I am _XENON THE ANTIQUARIAN_." His voice soared in a dramatic fashion. "Now, what can I do for _you_ , Solas the Wolf? You come seeking something, yes? Something _special_ , I take it?"

"Indeed."

"Well, have a look around! Everything is for sale! Except the rejuvenating oils. Those are for my personal use. But do not take anything you do not intend to buy." Xenon paused for a moment. "However, you may take one complimentary sock from that basket over there. But only one!"

"I've come for something in particular, actually. Something that belongs to me."

"'Belongs to you,' you say? Ha!" Xenon's laugh was short and condescending. "If it is _here_ , then it does not belong to you until you pay for it! Or," he said, considering, "unless you are able to restore my youth. _Permanently_. Can't make the same mistake twice. Give me permanent youth, and you can have the entire Emporium! Except for Chauncey. And the urchin. And all but _one_ of the socks from the basket. The monster beneath the floorboards can be yours, though. Comes with the building, I think."

"I've come for a blade. Do you know of the one I speak?"

"Let's see...Solas the Wolf, powerful mage, yes, but a blade, not a stave, hmm..." Xenon mumbled a bit. "Yes. _Yessss_ , oh yes, _that_ one! And what draws your eye to _that_ blade?"

"I am its maker. I have come for it back. I would thank you to return it to me."

"'Return' it to you? _For free_?" Xenon laughed again, echoing loudly enough to shake dust free from the rafters holding back the streets of Kirkwall above them. "Then you have no idea how a business works, Solas the Wolf!"

Solas sighed heavily."How much, then?"

"Oh, maybe you _do_ understand business after all. Let's see...for a powerful item such as _that_...considering its high demand..." Xenon chuckled, the sound taking on a scheming tone. "I'll part with it for 68,592 gold."

Solas blanched. "You cannot be serious."

" _Or!_ Eternal youth. I'll take either in exchange for the blade."

"That amount of gold is _preposterous_."

"Oh? Is it? And what makes you say that it shouldn't be worth that much, hmm?"

" _I made it_ , I should know how much it's worth!"

"You fail to take into account the _demand_ , and the value it's _appreciated_ over," Xenon chuckled again, " _millennia_. What will it be, _wolf_? Gold, or eternal youth? Or will you walk away empty-handed?"

Solas frowned. That amount of gold would take precious time to amass, more time than he had to spare. But neither could he grant the proprietor eternal youth. He doubted that anyone, save for Mythal, could accomplish such a thing. Especially not with the paltry magic from this side of the Veil.

"Eh, wolf? Tick tock, tick tock. I don't have all day!" Xenon grumbled. "Upon the urchin's return, it will be time for my hourly bath. Although I don't mind an audience if you'd prefer to stay."

Solas shook his head, and felt profound sadness weigh down his heart. "I am sorry."

The cursed creature, once a man, huffed. "Fine, then. Be on your way, if you're not here to buy anything."

"I am sorry," Solas said again, pulling his stave from his back.

Xenon's magicked voice was silent, then roared into laughter, echoing around and around the chamber. "And what do you intend to do with that, _wolf_? You know I'm _immortal_ , do you not? Immortal and, hmm, well protected."

Solas heard heavy thumps coming from a side passage and saw glowing lyrium runes outlining the shape of a stone golem. He felt the floorboards rattle and splinter as something large bucked against them from underneath. Even the tiny bear readied to fight, growling and standing up on its hind legs, claws outstretched.

And Solas felt truly, deeply sorry.

But he needed power.

And if he had to kill to take it, so be it.

* * *

He hung his stave off the hook on his back, breathing heavily. Stone dust littered every surface of what was left of the Black Emporium. The large, bulbous body of a demon called Greed, the so-called monster that had broken through the floorboards, was rapidly decaying and returning to the Fade.

Xenon the Antiquarian's body moved slightly, writhing as much as it could with pain. "But...I am... _immortal_..." The proprietor whispered weakly, mouth moving in jerking spasms. "I... _cannot_... _die_..."

"No," Solas agreed. He was exhausted. Xenon had ripped the magic from every item he could in the Emporium, hurling them as spells in Tevene and Anient Elvish. So much magic wasted fighting the inevitable. "You cannot die. Nor will you."

He approached the proprietor's chair, overturned from the many blasts of magic Solas had hurled back at him. His body lay stretched out, impossibly long and frail, with far too many limbs. The paper lanterns were scattered and crushed around him, the few candles still lit giving off a sickly glow.

"Take your blade," the creature said weakly. "Take your blade...and leave me in peace..."

Solas crouched in front of Xenon, his palm resting on the once-man's forehead. "I will take my blade. But I'm afraid I cannot leave you here."

Xenon's mouth shuddered open, a scream of rage or terror, cut off as the Anchor sparked to life and Solas' eyes turned to storm and smoke.

Once the antiquarian's body was empty of his magic-bound soul, it collapsed into dust, joining the remnants of his golem.

"No," Solas said to the pile of dust. "You will not die. But neither will you live as yourself."

Solas emptied drawers and cabinets until he finally found his blade. It was simple, slightly curved, the metal folded with layer upon layer of magic. When he'd made it, the world had still been complete. He'd let select people see glimpses of him crafting it, those he knew where spying for the Evanuris or for the Forgotten Ones, as they were now called. Then he'd contrived to disappear for a long while, making sure to leave hints and traces for those agents, to entice their masters further.

After he'd baited the trap, he'd gone to both, kneeling in front of the Evanuris, conspiring with the Forgotten Ones. He'd told them the blade he'd been forging was finished, after applying the final material. For the Evanuris, the most concentrated magic from high in the heavens. For the Forgotten Ones, from the very abyss itself. To both he said he'd hidden it there - the heavens, the abyss - so that only they could reach it. Reach it, and the war would be ended, finally and forever.

Spellweaver, the blade-stave he held in his hand, had been a ruse, powerfully enough made to be an enticing lure for the murderers and would-be oppressors. They were eager to get their hands on it and gain advantage over their enemies.

He'd crafted the _true_ blade long before forging Spellweaver.

And once they had fallen for his trap, he'd stood in _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ and brought down the true blade: The Veil. It sealed them in their cages and had indeed ended the war, finally and forever. But it had also created this bleak and lacking world.

He found a scabbard that would more or less fit Spellweaver and hung it from his back, next to his stave.

Solas paused when he heard whimpering. Behind the now cracked Mirror of Transformation, the tiny Great Bear, Chauncey, cowered. It tried hard to shrink back from him, yelping with panic, but couldn't escape the corner it had trapped itself in. Solas had been grateful that whatever urchin the antiquarian had mentioned wasn't present in the Black Emporium just then, but the bear...

This tiny bear, who could no longer take care of itself because of the antiquarian's whim, was terrified. And its terror broke Solas into tears.

Was he truly so much of a monster that even animals feared him?

Solas couldn't leave the little bear here among the wreckage, not without knowing when someone would next come around to rescue him. He cast a gentle sleep spell on the frightened thing, picking up its relaxed and snoring form. He cried again when he heard it whimpering in its magical sleep.

He opened the eluvian, and made his way towards a place he had not planned to go ever again. But he knew, he could not care for this tiny creature, nor could he set it back to rights and let it free. There was one person he could leave Chauncey with, and one person alone.

* * *

Cole stood in the dungeon of Skyhold. "She'd want to know you were here," he said uncertainly. "You want her to know you're here, too."

"But she cannot," Solas warned Cole, keeping behind the threshold of the secret door that led into the dungeon, in case he needed to make a hasty retreat.

"Why?" Cole shook his head slowly. "You both hurt, you both call to one another, you both want to be whole, but you won't. Why?"

"Because we are on two opposite sides, Cole," Solas explained patiently. "I must do what I know is right...No matter what else I want."

"She, too, has that thought. You are alike, halves of a whole that wants to knit together." He paced a little, agitated. "You both refuse the same, too." Solas shifted, and Cole stopped pacing suddenly. "Oh. I am sorry."

"You cannot help it, Cole," Solas said wearily. "As a spirit of Compassion, you are naturally aware of everyone's innermost thoughts and feelings. If I could hide my pain from you, to cause you less, I would."

Cole nodded, then pointed at Solas' chest. "He's scared."

Solas looked down at the tiny Great Bear in his arms. It shivered and wimpered, trying for the umpteenth time to squirm out of his grip. He held it out to Cole. "His name is Chauncey. I've brought it for -"

Cole took Chauncey without hesitation. "A gift. A warning." The bear settled into Cole's arms, burying its snout under his armpit and snuffling with relief. "He and Pepper will be good friends. They both miss their owners."

"Pepper?" Solas had an image of a fat, gray cat with yellow eyes hanging from Cole's arms as they left Skyhold for Adamant. Again, his thoughts were forced to dance around the person-shaped void. The interloper must have been the cat's original owner.

"Yes," Cole said. He looked down at Chauncey. "She will be happy, and mad."

"Yes, I suspect Halea will." Solas patted Cole on the shoulder. "It's good to see you again, my friend."

Solas blinked in surprise when Cole looked up at him, meeting his gaze in a rare show of extreme focus. "She already knows you still love her," he said gently. "Should I tell her again for you?"

Solas smiled and shook his head. "No, a passing thought, nothing more. Take care, Cole."

Cole turned and walked away, holding Chauncey carefully.

Solas waved his hand, closing the concealed door, and turned down the dirt corridor to leave Skyhold behind once again.


	16. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damage control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ Dorian ~  
> \---  
> ~ Leliana ~

"She needs you," Cole said. He sat on the railing that looked out into the rotunda, feet kicking idly out towards the half-painted murals. He stared down at the desk, still covered with papers and books and dust.

Dorian wrote calmly in his research journal, consulting copies of a few of the documents Chamberlain Thaasen had found in the Weisshaupt library. He was close to an answer, he could feel it. There weren't any mentions of the erased eighth Old God in the sources the Chamberlain had found, but there were a few very curious blank spaces between their words. Places where the information danced around a reference it never explained, or suddenly skipped over some point, becoming disjointed.

Still, there were a lot of 'ifs' in his journal, and a lot of points connected with spider's web strings.

First assumption: the Black City (once the Golden City) that the Imperium believed in, and the elven Eternal City are, in fact, the same City.

Second assumption: the Void from Imperium belief and the Abyss in elven belief are the same.

Therefore: there is some kind of connection between Imperium beliefs and elven beliefs.

That first bit was fairly solid logic, as best as he could tell, especially after conferring with Thaasen and cross-referencing the religious texts they had.

It was the third assumption and onward that things started to turn from plausible, to plausible lunacy.

Third assumption, based on the first two: there must be other connections between the two beliefs.

Fourth assumption, a stretch by any imagination: there must be a connection between the Imperium's Old Gods, and the elven Evanuris.

Dorian went through the list he had settled on with Thaasen, _if_ the fourth assumption was true: The most obvious possibility was that Razikale, the Dragon of Mystery, _could_ be Dirthamen, the god of Secrets. Further down the list with a possible connection was Lusacan, the Dragon of Night, and Andruil, goddess of the Hunt. The most unlikely pairing was Zazikel, the Dragon of Chaos, and June, the god of Craft.

Thaasen and Dorian had gone back and forth with the list, arguing over which gods matched which dragons, but they eventually settled with seven of the Evanuris matched to the seven Old Gods, with varying degrees of similarity.

Barring Fen'Harel, who they knew to be Solas and was not, as far as they could tell, a dragon, there was one elven god left: Mythal.

Fifth assumption: if all the Old Gods had Evanuris counterparts, then there should be an equal number of Evanuris and Old Gods.

Therefore...

"She needs you," Cole repeated, interrupting his thoughts again.

"I know, Cole, I know," Dorian sighed. "But surely she could use just one more minute to herself? One more minute for me to finish my own thoughts? Let me finish this up, and I'll even agree to be transported to her by your particular way of traveling."

Cole nodded, and he turned back to his research journal.

Therefore: there was an eighth Old God, and its counterpart was Mythal.

Supporting evidence: the slip of paper mentioning Usiu as another of the Old Gods.

Now, there was the possibility that the Old Gods were not, in fact, the Evanuris. There were the Imperium demon-gods called the Forbidden Ones, and the elven malicious gods the Forgotten Ones. But this lead to another interesting possibility.

Thought: what if the Old Gods aren't equivalent to the Evanuris, but to the Forgotten Ones? It would still mean a connection of some kind, but one that could cancel the possibility of an eighth Old God.

There was the slight possibility that the Forbidden Ones and the Forgotten Ones had some connection, but while there were four Forbidden Ones, there was no knowing how many Forgotten Ones there had been. Not without consulting Solas.

That was quite enough of that for the moment.

Dorian set his quill next to the inkwell and closed his research journal, disguising it again as _The Care and Keeping of Nugs_. "All right, Cole. I'm done twisting my mind into knots. Take me to her."

One short second later, he was in Halea's office-bedchamber.

He had expected Halea to be upset. He had not expected her to be standing calmly in front of her fireplace, gently petting a miniature Great Bear.

Dorian stood next to her. "When did your mantle get these gouges? Don't tell me you were practicing dagger throws on it."

"Had a visitor last night," Halea said, staring into the flames.

"Who?" He stroked the tiny bear's chin. The thing was blinking contentedly in Halea's arms, enjoying the fireplace's warmth.

"He called himself the Blue Wraith."

Dorian raised a brow. "Remind me to ask you more about that another time."

"Another time?"

"Yes," he said, waving his hand towards the settee set on the other side of the room. Magic lifted the settee easily and brought it close to the fire. "Let's have a chat."

Dorian sat and swung his arm over the back of the settee. Halea stayed standing, and the little bear grunted from her arms tightening.

"Halea."

She took a deep breath.

"Where did the bear come from, Halea?"

"Cole brought him to me." She stroked the bear's head. "His name is Chauncey."

"And how did Cole get the bear?"

"He wouldn't say."

"But...?"

"But..." She finally sat on the settee. "Josephine recognized him. He's the pet of a shop owner over in Kirkwall. Leliana had some of her people go to the shop. It was wrecked, and the owner was gone."

"Kirkwall's known to be a rough place. What's unusual about that?"

"It was the Black Emporium."

"The...that means..."

Halea stared at the fire. "Who do you know who could destroy the _immortal_ Xenon the Antiquarian?"

Dorian sighed. "None less than a god. Who knows Cole loves taking care of lost animals and can apparently come and go as he pleases."

"He's getting more powerful, Dorian." She set Chauncey in her lap and held up her marked palm. "I can feel him, through this."

"You're getting more powerful too, Halea." He stared at her hand. "But it's not just power, is it?"

She shook her head. He waited patiently, scratching Chauncey behind his ears.

"Am I really allowed to miss him, Dorian?" Her voice trembled.

"He's not a monster, Halea." He patted her shoulder. "And neither are you."

She finally allowed herself to cry fully. Those were tears and gasps of someone who had denied herself the right to weep for her losses, even when she was alone.

Dorian let her cry. At one point he left to gather supplies - food, wine, more wine - and returned. He pulled her desk chair up to the fire and listened and refilled her wine. He took the goblet out of her hand and placed a blanket over her after she fell asleep, Chauncey curled up next to her hip.

He quietly let himself out of the chamber and walked into the main hall. There was still plenty of time for him to continue connecting pieces of his research together, but first he'd track down Iron Bull. He wanted to arrange an after-sunset reward for himself, and he knew Bull would be more than happy to oblige.

He passed Cole as he made his way towards the training yard.

"Thank you," Cole said, a fat, gray cat in his arms.

"You're welcome. If you'd _really_ like to thank me, though..." Cole tilted his hat towards him. "I'd appreciate it if you could find places to be _away_ from Bull and I for the night. Agreed?"

Cole glanced at the bright afternoon sun. "A reward, yes."

"Good." He sighed. "And perhaps consider spending time with Halea. Being alone with her own thoughts, and that Anchor, may not be the best for her at the moment."

"She hears him."

"Yes. I think she would appreciate some company, someone to distract her."

"Like you and the Iron Bull?"

" _NO._ No. As a _friend_ , Cole."

Cole nodded and disappeared.

* * *

Leliana found Alistair sitting in front of the chessboard underneath the gazebo of the Skyhold gardens, staring at the untouched pieces.

She sat down and nodded to him. "Were you waiting for someone, or shall I join you for a game?"

"I wasn't planning to -" Leliana moved a pawn forward, the snap of the marble piece sharp and decisive. Alistair stared at the pawn for a moment, then moved one of his own. "Fine."

Leliana selected another pawn. "It has been a long time since you and I have talked alone together, Alistair. Not since the Archdemon was defeated, I think."

Alistair chose another pawn as well. "Not much time to talk when one of you is trying to rebuild the Ferelden Grey Wardens and the other is spy-mistress for the Seekers."

"True." Leliana's mouth quirked. She moved one of her Divines forward. Alistair did the same. "You've picked up a curious habit recently."

"Habit? What habit?"

"Your habit of sitting around lovesick for a woman none of us can remember. Except for Cole." Leliana moved a Chevalier, as did Alistair. She moved a pawn and waited.

Alistair chose to move his Chevalier again. "I don't know that I'd call that a 'habit,' exactly," he said glumly.

"What would you call it, then?" Leliana moved a pawn. Alistair reached for another of his pieces, but she swatted his hand away. "Pawn takes pawn." She held up the onyx chess piece between two of her fingers.

Alistair pouted, reminding her more of the innocent young man he had been ten years ago than the tired, jaded one he was now. "Dunno," he murmured. He stared down at the board, concentrating. "How would you feel if the woman you loved more than your very life was left behind in the Fade and everyone completely forgot her?" He took one of Leliana's pawns with a Chevalier.

Leliana retreated one of her own Chevaliers, to encourage Alistair. "I don't know that I would be able to leave my bed." Alistair switched his Tower and Queen - an advanced move that impressed Leliana very much. "Considering that, you are already doing much better than I would be."

They played in silence for a few moves. Leliana sacrificed a pawn to take one of Alistair's. Alistair sent his Divine across the board, looking to intimidate her. She scared him back a space with a pawn and brought another Chevalier forward. Just as she had hoped, Alistair sent out his king. Four moves later, Alistair's king had taken one of Leliana's Chevaliers at the cost of one of his Divines.

She moved her pawn and saw Alistair's face light up. His attention was fully on the board, exactly as she had planned. "So what are you doing about it?"

"About what?" Alistair moved another Chevalier and Leliana moved her Queen out of the way. "Seems I'm winning."

Alistair took another pawn with a smile that instantly turned into a frown when Leliana's pawn took his King. "I mean about your lost love."

Alistair flicked a frustrated glance at Leliana, then sent a Chevalier to take out the pawn that had overthrown the King. "I...don't know what to do."

"What would you _like_ to do?" She moved her Queen forward and sat back, allowing Alistair to consider his next move.

Alistair stared at the board, his hand floating over the pieces uncertainly. He finally moved a pawn. "Ideally? March into the Fade and get her back."

Leliana retreated her Queen. "What's stopping you? The Alistair I first met would have charged forward without a second thought - _or_ checking for traps, first."

Alistair raised his brow at her. "The Leliana _I_ first met would have talked to me about shoes and how she watched me sleeping. We've both changed." He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "There's the small matter of physically getting back _into_ the Fade. We had to fall off a cliff for the Inquisitor to open up that tear in the Fade. Now she's only got half of her mark..."

"She won't be able to get you back into the Fade. I see." She waited for Alistair to make his final move. "But stranger things have happened. Like this woman you're pining for. She came from another world, yes?"

Alistair stared at the board. "Yes. We were...storybook characters in her world. That's how she put it. And the thing that brought her here...it's worse than any Archdemon, maybe even than Corypheus. We're lucky it's left us alone." His hand reached forward hesitantly, hovering over his farthest Chevalier.

Leliana leaned forward. "You need to find another way into the Fade, then."

Alistair rolled his eyes. "Thank you, _so much_ , for the advice." He sighed and rubbed his forehead again, starting to sit back from the board.

"Alistair." He looked up at her. "You and I have been through much together. From the werewolves in the Brecilian forest, to confronting Loghain, to slaying the Archdemon. We've each been through much in the years since then, too. Are you sure there are _no_ options to pursue?"

Alistair considered. "Back in the Fifth Blight, the Ferelden Circle did that ceremony to send Thalanil's spirit to the Fade to free Connor from the demon's influence." He frowned again, looking back at the board. "But if it was as easy as getting some mages together, why would Solas have needed the mark, then?"

"I do not know. But it's worth looking into, no?"

Alistair nodded then paused. His hand went to his farthest Chevalier. "Think the Inquisition will lend me a hand?" He picked up his Chevalier.

Leliana smiled, tilting her head kindly. "We've already begun. All you need to do is come to the library when you're ready."

Alistair nodded once, then set his Chevalier down with a victorious snap. "Checkmate!"

Leliana stuck out her hand to Alistair. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." Alistair shook her hand and began setting the pieces back. "And...thank you."

She stood. "Of course. Anything for an old friend. And for love." She left Alistair to his own thoughts, already on her way to Minaeve and Fiona with the news.


	17. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dark and lonely spaces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Halea~

She stood in an Elvhen ruin, staring up at a half-finished mural.

The wolf in the mural had too many eyes on the parts of his face that were complete.

More wolves slowly appeared around him.

Crowding in, adding more and more until an army stood behind the incomplete, many-eyed wolf.

The many-eyed wolf's half-finished face stretched into a sly crescent of teeth.

They started tearing pieces of the many-eyed wolf away, blood dripping down the mural's wall like paint.

But the many-eyed wolf did not shrink, did not die.

It grew. It became complete.

The more the wolves tore into him, the stronger he became. Growing and growing, impossible to stop.

He stepped out of the mural, slowly, towering above her, a wide grin of sharp teeth. Claws gouged lines into the ruin's floors, and they filled with red.

Another step.

Then he passed her.

He never once looked at her, not with any of his myriad eyes. The others followed him, streaming past her in an endless wave, tongues licking up the blood from their snouts.

She stared at the barren mural. Bright, warm light radiated from the empty space the many-eyed wolf left behind, yet she still stood in shadow, growing colder.

She reached out, fingers grasping. Each strand of light danced out of her reach.

She looked down where her heart was. A light shone from it. Dim, and cold, so cold. Her light was nothing compared to that bright warmth.

The bright warmth grew, and her light disappeared.

The multi-eyed wolf had taken it for himself.

No.

He had taken it _back_. It hadn't been hers to begin with.

An imitation, a reflection. It would glow as long as he allowed it, until he took it back, and left her only the shadows.

She stared up at the bright warmth, she a moth, it the sun.

She was so cold.

She wanted to stand in that light. To burn in it. To let it eat up everything, even the ashes. Once everything was gone, she'd be nothing but that light.

She'd finally feel the warmth he kept from her. The fire he hid away. Not the weak reflection he'd tricked her with.

The multi-eyed wolf stood behind her. She felt his gaze.

"You've always known," he said through his toothed grin.

And she had, hadn't she?

That he had always kept most of himself locked away from her.

While she had given him everything.

Every

Single

Piece.

The many-eyed wolf was at her back, complete, waiting.

She opened her arms to the light, pleading.

She just wanted to feel it.

Just for a moment.

She wanted to feel the fire he'd refused to share with her.

Feel its heat on her skin.

Its warmth on her face.

Its coals in her stomach.

To let it scorch deep marks across her mind.

Finally feel the fire of the full light, not the reflection.

Even if it meant burning away to nothing.

The cold was a knife, cutting her open from neck to hip, showing nothing inside of her.

"Please," she begged the multi-eyed wolf, her eyes on the bright warmth.

He grinned wider.

"Please!" She shouted, voice shattering like ice.

His army surrounded her, maws dripping, eyes hungry.

The bright warmth faded away.

The hollow of her ribs filled with shadow.

And the wolves waited.

Waited until the many-eyed wolf had walked away from her.

Then all she knew was teeth.

* * *

Halea woke. The little bear was curled up under the blanket next to her, his nose tucked under his hind leg. The fire had gone out, and the sky was dark, stars hanging in the deep velvet of night. She pulled the blanket closer around her, not wanting to get up to stoke the fire again. But she was freezing. She needed the warmth.

Cole appeared, as quiet and quick as a thought.

"It won't be the same," he said.

"I know."

He built the fire back up for her. The warmth came over her slowly. Even the smallest bit of warmth felt better than the cold.

Cole sat on the ground near her feet, hugging his knees.

"I want to stop thinking about him, Cole."

Cole shook his head. He pointed to her hand. "You can't."

She clenched her marked palm.

"So what do I do now?"

"Dorian said I shouldn't be the Iron Bull." Cole pulled a book from somewhere on his person. "Cassandra reads books like this. When she does, she forgets for a little while."

He handed it to her.

" _The Viper's Nest_?"

"Yes! Varric wrote it!" He hugged his knees again. "Will you read it to me?"

He sounded like a child, asking for a bedtime story. Halea needed a distraction. Especially from whatever Cole had meant about 'not being like Bull.' And she'd always wondered just how good of an author Varric _really_ was.

Halea sat up, settling Chauncey in her lap, and opened the book. She patted the settee, letting Cole get settled on it before she began.

"Camus tried to shake the stench of the chokedamp from the Undercity off his brocade doublet. He didn't want to see his family smelling of the rot of the seediest side of Kirkwall. His fancy clothes were already going to cause a stir, and bringing the stink of the one part of the Undercity that hadn't managed to infect the Alienage wasn't going to do him any favors..."

Halea read to Cole well into the night, closing the book and nodding off on the settee again as the first blushes of pink started to color the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the final verse of ["The Moon Will Sing" by The Crane Wives.](https://youtu.be/pwhec-xnWfY)


	18. Claws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hands that cannot love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Solas~

He watched the broken man holding her.

Holding her close, letting the smallest dregs of the love he was capable of seep out of his soul like water through hesitant cracks of a dam.

She pressed her face into the broken man's chest, wound her arms around him, closed her eyes, soaked in those dregs like sunlight.

The broken man held her tighter, angling the claws that made his hands clumsy away from her delicate skin.

He knew the broken man couldn't allow himself to hold her fully.

If he did, the claws would hook into her skin and drag her under.

Drowning her, along with himself. Together.

The broken man hid his claws behind her back.

She didn't know about the claws that could tear her apart, the flood that could drown her, if he allowed himself to accept her invitation.

An invitation built on unseen claws and carefully constructed illusions.

He watched the broken man try so hard to keep his claws away from her.

He knew how badly the broken man's hands wanted to feel the warmth of her skin.

Even with her in his arms, the broken man was on the other side of the dam where his love was held back, and yet it forced itself through cracks he didn't want to seal.

Wishing she was on this side of the crumbling stone, with him.

Drowning her in the things he'd kept back.

Wishing to be on the other side, with her.

Drowning him in all the things he didn't know about her.

He watched the broken man lift shaking claws.

He watched the broken man try to stroke her back.

He saw the ecstasy that suddenly brightened her face, the way her arms tightened around the broken man to press her body to his.

Her invitation insistent, his will finally unresistant.

He saw the dam collapse. The broken man unmoored from gentleness and caution.

He watched the claws dig into her skin.

He watched relief flood the broken man's face as he unleashed his claws to fully, finally, truly hold her.

He watched those claws impale her to the broken man's chest.

He watched her expression change to dread.

The more she struggled, the tighter the broken man's claws held her.

The more she struggled, the more she bled.

The more she struggled, the guiltier the broken man's face became.

"Please," the broken man begged.

He saw the realization in her face.

The broken man's love, now unmoored, would not let him free her.

To hold her fully, finally, truly, was to anchor her to him forever.

He watched her expression become one of disgust.

He saw blood stain her lips, as red as passion and anger and revenge.

"Please!" The broken man shouted, voice crumbling.

The broken man begged her to love him, to fight past the claws, to open her lungs to the flood, to fully, finally, truly know him.

The broken man begged her to let him drown in her, so he could fully, finally, truly know her in return.

Because the broken man had kept to the dregs of her he allowed himself, even when she offered more. He'd soaked those dregs in like sunlight.

She struggled again, trying to pull away, trying to rescind her invitation, trying to rebuild the dam and push back the flood and break free of his love.

He wanted the broken man to feel remorse.

To feel the deep regret he should, to have the courage to withdraw his claws and ask for forgiveness.

The broken man only felt guilt.

The broken man only uttered the plea for her to release him from the harm he'd done her.

"Can't you understand?" The broken man whispered. "This is why."

He hated the broken man.

The broken man who had tried to hold himself back, and failed.

The broken man who had tried to keep her safe, and failed.

The broken man who had tried to love her a little, only a little, just a little, and failed.

The broken man who had tried to deny his claws her blood, and failed.

The broken man who had never wanted to hurt her, had never wanted to be hurt.

And had failed.

He watched the broken man complete his embrace.

He watched the broken man hold her with hands that looked clever and gentle once the claws had sunk in and hidden underneath her skin.

He watched the broken man tear her open with those sunken claws to expose what she had never kept from him to begin with.

He watched her body shudder once, then go still.

He watched the broken man grieve, guilt building up in his stomach and his throat like bile.

He hated the broken man.

He watched the broken man hold what was left of her and weep.

And hated himself.

* * *

Solas woke with a start, his body cold with sweat, and stumbled for the basin. He was halfway to it when the contents of his stomach forced their way up his throat and onto the floor.

Dammit.

He wiped the spit and bile from his lips, snatched the fresh towel next to the basin off the stand, and started to clean up his mess.

He had theorized that perhaps these bodily reactions were becoming more frequent because of the power he was amassing. Perhaps he truly was no longer immortal after drawing the Veil down. Perhaps he was immortal still, and this was merely the consequence of hosting this much power in a body weakened by his uthenera.

He shivered with cold, but his clothes were soaked with sweat. A fever, then. He washed his hands with the clean water of the basin, drying them on a spare tunic, then tried a small healing spell on himself.

No luck.

He was due to begin his journey to the Well of Sorrows in the morning. He would have to delay, most likely, until this sickness passed.

Perhaps it was fitting.

He lay on the bed, pulling the blankets over him for the illusion of treating the chills that rippled across his skin. He stared at the ceiling, wondering if she was enduring similar symptoms, wondering if her mortal elven body would make this illness harder on her, hoping she wasn't suffering.

Wishing he had never been able to lose her to begin with.

Missing her.

He slipped back into a restless sleep. He had nightmares where he was drowning. That didn't bother him much.

The true horror of the dreams was being unable to release his claws that hooked into her and having to watch as he forced her to drown on the way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on yet another song by The Crane Wives, ["Never Love an Anchor"](https://youtu.be/Y07xArvIvjw) \- why do so many of their songs just _fit_?


End file.
